Struggle
by Lily2026
Summary: Dealing with the psychological and emotional ramifications of her 11 years in Kinloch Hold, Tamsin Surana finds herself one of the two surviving Grey Wardens in Ferelden. Recovering from heartache and with a thirst for battle, she struggles to find who she is outside of the Circle Tower. Focusing on character development rather than just a retelling of Origins. Warning; self-harm
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Hey!

This is the story of Tamsin Surana, the Warden, from Kinloch Hold to the end of the Fifth Blight. It is technically a Prequel for another story I have planned, and the meat of the story will (hopefully) be more about her experiences SURROUNDING the questlines we all know and love than just a retelling of those quests, though I will retell some events where I make things a bit AU or where they are very relevant to the character development.

Pairings undecided for this story, though the final pairing will be with Solas in book 3.

 **WARNING:** This story contains graphic self-harm. MC is a masochist with a lot of psychological problems.  
This story contains graphic sex.  
This story MAY, at some point, contain BDSM relationships both sexual and not, and if it doesn't, the rest of the trilogy will.

 **Chapter 1**

 **9:27 Dragon, Circle Tower**

 _Fire. It engulfs the tree in front of the me. My mother's shouting halts immediately, and a hand closes around my hair. I cry out in pain as my mother pulls me away from the fire. I fall into the dirt with a wail._

" _Mamae!"_

 _She doesn't listen. She stalks out of the yard, and doesn't come back. In a stupor of fear and shock, I sit on the ground, arms curled around my knees, watching the tree burn to a crisp. I am so absorbed I doesn't notice the return of my mother until she is pulling me to my feet. I look up at my mother's face, which is hard as stone. She grimaces at me before pushing me way from herself._

 _Rough hands catch me; cold metal plate pushes against my cheek and I am held in place. I look up at who is holding me – swords, shem, metal,_ templar _, not alone. I spin my neck around to look for my mother hard enough to crack it._

 _All I see is her grim face as she drags the knife across her throat. I fight against the templars, screaming as they drag me-_

The young mage startles awake, not an unusual occurrence nor an unusual nightmare. Memory. She looks around herself, remembering her surroundings on the bottom bunk in the apprentice's quarters. The Circle Tower, the gilded prison. Truly extravagant.

It only takes a quick look around the room to find the resident Templar guard. He stands stoically next to the door, righteously making sure none of the young mages fall prey to demons in their sleep. That's when they're vulnerable, after all. It unsettles the young elf every night, and she often sleeps little to none. Their eyes are always there, always watching.

She leans over and pulls her small chest out from under the bed. There are no locks, not on any of them. Not even full mages have chests that lock. Or doors. Gods, she misses doors, especially now as she pulls out her robes for the day: a stifling set of apprentice robes, the same as everyone else wore. There is no privacy as she strips out of her night clothes and pulls the robes over her head, but there never has been, not since she was six years old. At least when she was six years old, she didn't have to worry about the Templars' gaze. She didn't dare look over and check which one it was.

The chest is mostly robes, a few books, scrolls, and her journal. She has scarcely any personal affects at all.

"Tamsin!"

She turns around, now dressed, to find one of her only two friends greeting her. She must have just entered the room as there were only two other sleeping apprentices in here when Tamsin looked around previously.

"Morning, Moiraine," the elf greets.

"Morning?" the blonde snorts. "You missed lunch."

"Oh," Tamsin mutters. There's little else to say. It is Sunday, so there's no harm in it, really, and she'd gone to bed rather late the night before. What was she going to miss, Chantry services? That's a joke in itself. Her human friend kneels down to pull her own chest out, looking for a book. "Heading to the library?"

"No, though I'll bet you are. It's like you live there," she replies. Tamsin nods along in agreement.

"Yeah, you have me there. I'll see you for supper then?" The human agrees, and the apprentices part ways. Tamsin ignores the Templar by the door to the best of her abilities as she stalks by him and further into the tower. It has become a habit, truly, when she's never alone, to pretend she is. Most do it. The reality is that it's frustrating to only be able to have real discussions out of earshot, which only happens a few times a day and in larger groups. Meals are usually safe.

Still, there are topics everyone avoids. It's rare that Tamsin manages a real conversation with anyone, and so she avoids them. The incessant small talk everyone does, the bullshit, fake smiles and happy faces wear on her like nothing else, save perhaps those for whom the smiles are not fake.

That was perhaps why she lived in the library day to day. Just as on every other day, she walks along the round rooms until she finds a mostly secluded place; the library is, again, a safe haven. The templars tend to guard from doorways, and it was at times possible to find some privacy there.

Ten years in this place, and Tamsin found that, were she to pick up a book at random, the chances of her having read it were equal to it being new. She'd long since perused the most readily available books on the shelves and moved onto the dustier ones. It took a few years for her to discover that the older books, frequently written in other languages entirely, were always the most interesting. Since then, she occupied herself reading and translating, often. Some books of Tevinter origin, old books written in Ancient Tevene, that perhaps the templars would remove if they thought someone was taking the time to actually learn to read Ancient Tevene, or even modern Tevene, which was almost nonexistent, but those were perhaps some of the most interesting onees. Oddly enough, it was Tamsin's favourite pastime, and she became quite adept at it. There were many books in Orlesian, too, from the University and prominent circles like Montsimmard. Luckily, it was much more readily available and accepted for her to learn, and even get some tutoring with, Orlesian.

Moiraine and Jowan often joke that Tamsin would learn Ander over one old dusty book, and she believes it. Ironically enough, the elf did once learn Antivan, to a degree, over the only handful of books in the library in the language. It's a rusty and incomplete education. Tamsin has a reputation among the Enchanters for being found nose-deep in a book when she's supposed to be in a lesson.

Tamsin's opinion on the matter is that she learns more from books than she ever will from the Enchanters, but she never says so. That would be dangerous. She keeps her head down, aside from a penchant for curiosity, which endeared her to some of the higher up mages and made Chantry lovers threatened.

Hunger clawing at her stomach, the elf snags a dusty book off the shelf. She knows the hunger pains will fade, considering she's been here many days before. She's as far off as she can be from the central room of the library. In the wings, alcoves are more frequent and things are a bit quieter, though Templars patrol through on rounds, it isn't too frequent. It also happens to hold the dustier books. People don't come back here to read, admittedly, and Tamsin tries not to think about how many people, her included, have had sex on the chair she's reclined in now.

Truly, there's no privacy in the Circle. It breeds a variety of things in different people. Some stay modest, some surrender themselves to it, others fluctuate. Sex itself is fairly prominent, with the amount of young people cooped up in a building with nothing to do and nothing to feel.

That's Tamsin's problem, and it gives her trouble as she tries to focus on the words in front of her. Perhaps if it was a book written in Trade, she'd have an easier time reading it, but it's written in Ancient Tevene, called _Usi Ambienti Manae_ , meaning Uses of Ambient Mana. It's a subject she has read on before, though a different book.

Her relative peace is interrupted by a harried apprentice rushing into the room, a startled expression on his face. He looks at her briefly, raising his arms imploringly, before diving behind her chair and curling himself into a ball. The heavy footsteps of a templar approaching cause Tamsin to wipe the startled look off her face and look back down at her book. It's a man, fully armored, and with those helms it's difficult to tell the difference between any templar. He halts in the doorway.

"You, knife-ear, where'd he go?" he demands. It feels as though a hand has wrapped around her heart as she fights to keep a neutral outwards expression. Luckily, it is a practiced face and she succeeds in pointing the man deeper into the library. The pressure in her chest fades off as the templar stalks deeper into the library. The room would be full of people, and she doubts he will come back to interrogate her.

The other apprentice has the same thoughts, or is excessively foolhardy, and he crawls out from behind the chair and seats himself on the side table.

"Thanks for that one, could've gotten a bit ugly," he says cheerily. He's a tall, with blonde hair loose down to his shoulders and warm brown eyes. He seems familiar to her, but so does everyone around the Tower. Really, everyone knows most people's names, and the only difference for Tamsin was that she truly never cared.

"What the fuck did you do?" she blurts out without thinking. Luckily, it doesn't matter. No one's around.

"Well, let's just say he'll be a bit wet under that helm."

Tamsin's eyebrows shoot up, but she knows better than to press for details. Truly, she doesn't want to know. That's when she places his name, however. One of the older apprentices, nearing his Harrowing.

"Oh! You're Anders."

"I see I have a reputation," he comments playfully. He rests his arm down on the back of her shoulder and leans in. "What kind?"

"Oh, a few," she mutters in reply, a flush coming over her face. A few indeed. He'd made at least five escape attempts, though none in the past year. His other reputations include tormenting and backtalking templars, resulting in no brief list of injuries and punishments. He's probably going to pay for this one later too. It's another thing entirely that apprentices say about him that makes a blush creep up Tamsin's face.

"You look pretty in pink." He grins, leaning away from the elf again to sit back on the table. His expression changes as he takes stock of the books on the table and the one in the other apprentices' hands. "Ambient mana? An interesting subject. I've studied how its been adapted for healing magics extensively."

"You read Ancient Tevene?" the redhead questions in surprise.

"How else would I read all the tomes the Chantry disapproves of?"

"True, I—"

The stomping of heavily armored boots interrupts their conversation. Anders winks at the elf one more time and grins.

"Gotta run!" he exclaims, spinning around the bookshelf and running deeper into the library.

What a curious interaction, she ponders, turning her attention back to her book as the templar rushes back into the alcove and beyond. As it turns out, that would be far from her last run in with Anders.

Tamsin breaks for supper, but only returns to reading afterwards. The sky darkens outside as she relaxes, absorbing herself into a history book on the Third Blight written in Orlesian. It's late at night, nearly curfew, before she realizes she needs to get back to the dormitory.

It turns into a hurried dash back to her bunk, trying not to get caught out late by the senior mages, who would assign detentions, nor the templars, who were much riskier. One could expect anything from a beating to a scolding.

It is about halfway to the dormitory that she encounters the templar. The halls are dim with torchlight glinting off the plate armor of his back as he leans into a small apprentice, no older than Tamsin herself. The young boy's face is purple, with blood spilling from a split lip and the templar's hand grasping his hair.

"Hey!" Tamsin calls without thought, then cursed herself when the templar spins to look at her. Perhaps she should have just walked away, run away, anything, and let the boy handle it, but something in her still flares up at the sight of scenes like this one. Helping the downtrodden, perhaps, but she couldn't deny that there had been countless other times when she watched something like this and turned a blind eye. She thought perhaps her encounter with Anders emboldened her.

Regardless, the man is angry he was interrupted. He stomps down the hall, approaching Tamsin, who froze in the middle of the hall. She can't make her legs work as she stands there stricken with fear until the templar reaches her. It's the powerful backhand that throws her out of her trance, and she is knocked to the ground. Her arms fly out to catch her, but it's useless as her head crashes against the floor too quickly to react. A metal boot flies into her stomach and she cries out in pain, curling in on herself. She wonders how Anders stands this on a regular basis.

"What do you think you're doing out so late at night, little knife-ear?"

 _Fucking shem_. She can't answer, heaving for breath that had been knocked out of her by his foot. She doesn't know what she would say if she could. He hauls her to her feet by her hair and tosses her at the wall. She catches it, keeled over and spluttering. Strands of her black hair are left in his hand. He shoves her in front of him, marching her back towards the dormitories.

She can't help but think that she's lucky it wasn't worse, though she could've been luckier and met a kind guard. Maybe one that didn't believe a beating was an effective way to correct bad behaviours in apprentices.

She is shoved through the empty doorway into the room she shares with perhaps twenty other apprentices. The elf catches herself on the bedpost of someone else's bunk. She is thankful the lights are already out as she stumbles into her own bunk and pulls the covers over herself, still fully dressed. She presses her back against the wall, unconsciously seeking security, before closing her eyes.

Fear leads people to do harsh things.

The next morning, Tamsin wakes up in pain. Every breath she takes sends pain into her gut. Squinting her eyes, she notes that the other apprentices are only just rousing for the day, so she hasn't slept in. It's a relief. She wants to stay as unobtrusive as possible to avoid attention being drawn to her injuries. She goes so far as to throw some powder on her face in an attempt to mute the colouring of the bruises there.

Moiraine's face hardens at breakfast, but she doesn't comment on it, making stiff conversation about their lessons for the day. Their morning lessons with Enchanter Kyla pass without incident, though Tamsin paid little attention to them. She was a healing instructor, and though a useful skill, it was one Tamsin had no knack for.

After lunch, Tamsin gives up on her afternoon classes. She chooses instead to slip off to an alcove in the library and do some reading. Skipping classes might be a punishable offense, but by Enchanters, not templars. Their detentions are admittedly much less frightening than a beating or any of the formal punishments templars can apply. The third time Anders ran away, they flogged him. She remembered it clearly. She had been little more than a child at the time.

"Hey," a voice interrupts her reading. She was absorbed in her book and hadn't noticed someone approaching. The calm nature of the voice is all that keeps her from startling. She looks up to find Anders.

"Oh. Hello," she replies, surprised. She watches his expression turn to concern upon seeing her bruised face. He doesn't comment on it immediately, but comes instead to perch on her side table again.

"Not going to lessons?" he asks. Tamsin shrugs.

"Not unusual for me," she admits. "Why, shouldn't you be in some, too?"

"I have better things to do," he says. "For example, sitting here, on your table, and interrupting your reading." She laughs cheerfully in response, surprised to find it isn't hollow.

"It's welcome, then," she answers. And for once, it's true.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

9:28 Dragon, Circle Tower

"Anders! Slow down!" Tamsin calls playfully as he races down the torchlit hall ahead of her. She pushes herself into a jog to keep up with him as he dips into an empty classroom. At this time of night, they were all empty, which was convenient for their plans. As was the fact that Anders had gotten hold of the guard's rotation schedules.

When she dashes into the room behind him, he's already reclining at the teacher's desk at the front of the room, his feet propped up on it. The elf stops, leaning in the empty doorframe to catch her breath. Anders straightens his posture, not removing his feet from the desk.

"Miss Surana!" he begins. "Late, again, I see. We've already started without you. It seems you'll have to learn the 4th and 5th declensions for irregular nouns on your own time." He pitched his voice high in what she believes was an impression of Enchanter Gretchen, who teaches Ancient Tevene classes neither of them ever attends anymore. Tamsin, for one, had learned such things on her own time years before she was even able to take Ancient Tevene as a class. Apprentices didn't often choose to take it anyway.

"Oh, Creators forbid!" she mocks. Anders grins lopsidedly at her and pulls out the bottle from his robes and slams it on the desk next to his feet. Tamsin approaches excitedly and scoots up onto the desk next to the bottle, facing her friend. He scoots closer and pops the top off, then smells it.

"I think I got one of the good bottles this time."

"I will admit, the last bottle you grabbed tasted like you carried it down here in your ass," Tamsin jokes. The wine wasn't her preference, but it was all the Circle kept stocked. Mages weren't even permitted to drink it unless they happened to be a high-ranking Enchanter.

"For all you know, that's how I stole it." He tips the bottle back and glugs down a few mouthfuls in one go. Tamsin grabs it playfully, shooting him a glare for drinking so much without sharing, and begins drinking herself.

"Mythal, I hope not."

The bottle goes quickly, leaving both tipsy. For a small, thin elf like Surana, it didn't take much to have her head spinning, which conveniently leaves a bit more for Anders to drink. Tamsin reclines on the desk, her shoes kicked off, while Anders remains slouched over in the teacher's chair.

"-and then he just turned around and left the hall!" Anders was regaling.

"No pants!" Tamsin exclaims through a fit of giggles. She rolls over onto her side, eyes on Anders, cushioning her head on her arm.

"Karl told me that one," he admits. "Though I'd love to take credit."

Tamsin flinches inwardly at the mention of Karl, but she hides the reaction from Anders. If her were a more observant person, she thought he may be able to pick up on her distaste for their situation. Luckily, or unluckily, perhaps, he was no such thing. This is the Circle after all, and she just doesn't want to make anything messy.

"Couldn't have you stealing his due." Does he know you come here with me? That's what she wants to say, but she doesn't. She's already sure he knows. Anders wouldn't do that to Karl. Not his real lover. She shakes the thoughts, picking up the nearly empty bottle of wine and swirling it around. She sits up and it turns out to be too quickly since her head spins and she squeaks in surprise, steadying herself on the edge of the desk. Tamsin holds out the bottle to Anders. "Your Mage-ship." He accepts it readily but, again, refuses to speak of the Harrowing despite the prod. Doesn't want to endanger her, or some other horseshit in her opinion. He finishes off the bottle in one quick go, and doesn't seem interested in talking after that, since he stands up, surefooted, and grabs her by the waist.

She doesn't protest as she is pulled into his chest; on the contrary, she wraps her legs greedily around his waist. In truth, it's rare they have as much time as this to themselves. Usually, liaisons in the Circle Tower are quick, hurried things stolen in closets or, sometimes, mage's quarters. Nights like this were rarely ever risked, and it was the first time Tamsin had this much time alone with anybody since her arrival. The patrols this night were luckily stationed elsewhere, though there wasn't always such a gap.

Regardless, it means they have a bit more time than usual, and Tamsin realizes the implications of this as her robes are being pushed up over her head. The prospect excites her as she tosses her robes to the side of the room and hurries to undo the belt on Anders' new ones. He readily disrobes on his own, stepping away from Tamsin. The little elf nearly pitches forwards at the loss of balance, but regains her composure by catching herself with her feet and standing up. She discards her smalls before Anders does so.

As soon as his robes are gone, Tamsin takes a hurried step towards Anders and pulls him into a rushed kiss. She's insistent on running her hands over every inch of skin she can reach. As she drags them up across her back, the softness of his skin turns rough. Scars, she realizes, from punishments past. She wondered which one had been bad enough to leave such a scar, as the only one she remembered witnessing had halted once blood was drawn.

Now was clearly not the time to ask, and the thoughts were pushed from her mind as the mage pushed her back into the desk, lifting her by the thighs to seat her on it. He surprised her then by kneeling down in front of her and bringing his mouth to her sex. The feeling is something like she's never experienced before, and she resists the urge to cry out. Immediately, any thoughts she had flee her mind and she reaches back to grasp the edges of the desk.

Foreplay is somewhat of an unknown to her. It's been a rarity because no one really had time for it while engaging in a bit of quick hormone release behind a bookshelf. Tamsin occasionally offered, but never dared ask anything in return and none of the men—boys—seemed in a hurry to indulge like Anders was now.

It makes her heart swell, but she represses that feeling as quickly as she can. The emotion makes her pull back from the situation, and she sits up, drawing Anders up to his feet again. The girl pulls his face down to capture his lips on hers. She tastes herself on his lips, and her first instinct is revulsion, but as Anders lines himself up with her entrance and pushes in, the smell a few inches away from her face instead turns intoxicatingly new and exciting. She's the most wet she's ever been, and there was no friction when he entered her. That wasn't to say that she didn't usually get pleasure from her dalliances, only that she was used to a slightly rough start.

Anders pulls her into a sitting position and she wraps her arms around his neck tightly. He grasps her hips, albeit gently, and thrusts into her with a bit more fervor. He's a gentle lover, and Tamsin feels as though she shouldn't be taking that for granted, but she can't help as her mind wanders into fantasies that play out in the Fade. She feels a wave of pleasure as he tightens his grip and thrusts a bit harder. She wants to beg, harder, to egg him on, to poke at him until he pushes her into the wall and takes her, but she refrains as usual, embarrassed and guilty about her desires.

However, the thought and a particularly hard thrust is enough to send a jolt of pleasure over her. It isn't an orgasm, this she knows considering the rarity with which she actually has one during sex compared to by masturbation, but it's enough for Anders, who topples over the edge. Tamsin releases his neck and lays back on the desk, tired after the exertion, and the blonde sits back in the teacher's chair after pulling his smalls back up.

Tamsin rests her head on her arm so she can look at him, tucking dark stands of hair behind her pointed ear. The man opens his mouth to say something, so Tamsin cuts him off.

"We should probably get to bed." She doesn't want to know what he was going to say. She's too afraid to. Anders only nods, standing to retrieve his clothes and toss hers over to her.

"It's probably almost dawn." It's agreement. Surana is relieved. She's pushing him away, and she knows it, but she's just so afraid.

Anders walks her back to her dormitory, anticipating the wait for a guard rotation in order for her to sneak back in unnoticed. They don't converse until halfway through the walk when Anders halts them by one of the only windows in the Tower. He looks at her until she meets his eyes, and when she does she sees the familiar spark of playfulness in them as he tosses the wine bottle unceremoniously out the glassless window. Tamsin covers her mouth abruptly to stop herself from laughing, though Anders doesn't bother, his chuckle lightening the mood as they continue their journey.

When she finally tucks herself into her bed, prepared to sleep through until morning, the sleepiness disappears from her eyes and she finds herself lying awake with her sadness. Sleep comes harshly, the Fade an unwelcome sight.

Never speak to anything in the Fade, they teach. For a long time, fear had her holding that stance, and she kept her dreamspace locked tightly shut, never daring to leave nor let any visitors, demon or otherwise, in. Eventually, after reading perhaps too many adventure books, she finally ventured out into the Fade itself. The space between dreamspaces is an eerie, green, rocky, unwelcoming space. It was how Curiosity stumbled upon her. Overall, it was a pleasant experience, though she still rarely ventures out of her dreamspace and rarely invites Curiosity into it. Being in the Circle makes her hesitate to be seen even with her benign companion.

If anyone asked her, she would admit that Curiosity constantly bombarded her with questions about the world. If she were to let Curiosity into her body, she would bet she would go, but the spirit never asked for such a thing. In truth, they mostly had rather rousing discussions where they traded knowledge.

Curiosity is, in its purest form, Curiosity. Innocent yet ambitious in its asking, unable to resist the pull of a new area, a new language, a new book, a new person. Tamsin had long since theorized that perhaps Curiosity was drawn to her because it was a trait that ran in her strongly. Sadly, it wasn't something she could ever discuss within spitting distance of so many templars, nor with any of these mages who may think her a danger.

Truly, Curiosity was never sated, but nor was she a violent emotion. The exchange of theories and information kept her interested and happy.

This wasn't to say Tamsin never had experiences with any other spirits or demons. Truly, Desire was a constant plague, as she was for everyone. Everyone experiences Desire, and thus everyone is plagued by her in their dreams—or at least, that is her theory.

Pride is a constant threat, but she knows how to handle him. Sometimes she doubts that confidence, wondering if her pride was the cause of it, but in the end, it doesn't matter. She doesn't let him toy with her, though he always shows himself in moments of weakness to torment her.

Tonight was one such night. A low point, Pride come in shifting forms to aggravate her. He, unlike Curiosity, does want inside her. She shuts him out with great difficulty, wishing for a Fadeless sleep. She isolates herself in her dreamspace, but the whole night is spent with Pride hitting up against her walls, jeering at her when her resolve weakens.

When she wakes, earlier than intended, it is a blessing.

She doesn't see Anders for days after their night together. This doesn't scare her; on the contrary, it was normal. He'd drop in and see her at irregular intervals. Plenty of other people had earned his attention, a thought she bitterly suppresses at every turn. She feels guilty for even feeling hurt by it, and reacts in the usual way, which is either finding somebody to sleep with so she can pretend it doesn't matter, or reading even harder. This time, she decides to read harder. So many magic techniques she's never been able to practice. It distracts her enough during the day.

At night, Pride torments her. She wonders if she'll ever learn how to shut him up. She spends her nights wondering. An internal shift in mentality, perhaps she needs to be less prideful, or perhaps she needs stronger barriers while she sleeps so that she can shut him out more effectively. Days pass and she wakes without feeling rested from the effort.

That Sunday, she resolves to spend the day researching how to block him out. She hopes that she can find some sources that aren't dampened by the Chantry's ideologies. Some of them are effective, yes, and they are right on a few things. After all, all myths have a kernel of truth. The Chant of Light is simply embellished and altered to fit a narrative. It is religion.

They're right. The Fade is dangerous, and mages can be possessed. They're wrong about other things. One had to be, first of all, stupid enough to actually let a demon possess you. Within your own dreamscape, they can't do it without your permission. Truly, one had to be desperate or completely deceived in order to become an abomination. And at least a bit suicidal, she thinks, recalling drawings of abominations.

She's nose deep in a book from an Orlesian source when Jowan finds her. She looks up, expecting something benign, but shuts her mouth abruptly at the look on his face. He appears to have something to say, and seems afraid to deliver it.

"What?" she snaps, and regrets it immediately.

"Anders ran away again." The words leave his mouth in a flurry.

Tamsin lifts her arm to hold the bridge of her nose. The alcove is thankfully empty aside from those two, so she shuts her book abruptly and places it on the side table. She stands up, turns away from Jowan and steadies her breathing before turning her head over her shoulder to look at him.

"Get the fuck out."

He does. She doesn't have time to feel bad. Her emotions fly into turmoil as she slips in behind one of the bookshelves. The tiny elf presses herself against the wall, hoping not to be disturbed. She stares blankly ahead, emotions warring to find a dominant feeling.

Eventually, pain wins out. Tears leak from her eyes and she holds herself there in tired sadness. He didn't say goodbye to her. He hadn't even talked to her in days. It was difficult for her to get hit with the realization that she means so little, despite how much the moments they shared meant to her.

She wonders if there was anyone he did tell he was leaving. The thought comes as an unwelcome intrusion, and she tries to push away the horrible jealousy. Guilt grips her and she curls onto her side, tears flowing faster. She can't hide the hurt any longer, can't hold it in. All she can do is keep quiet while the sobs rake through her.

Hours later, she crawls out of the tight space, eyes red but dry. Her limbs ache from being cramped and her heart feels hollow, but she is calm. A quick stop in the washroom to run hot water over her face, and her face feels much improved. She tries to harden her heart, but doesn't have it in her to head to dinner yet, and piles into her bunk with the same book she'd been reading earlier instead.

She's grateful when Moiraine and Jowan bring her some scraps at the end of the night. She doesn't have an appetite, but it's a nice thought.

It takes days, but she grows accustomed to his absence. Really, it wasn't like he talked to her every day or anything. Things seemed almost normal, but she couldn't hide the foolish hole in her heart. Especially not from Pride. She can't help but miss his presence at her side table as she reclines in her chair for her usual evening reading. It's after supper and her favourite time of day, but she feels sullen. She wishes Anders was with her, but she also wants him as far from this gods-forsaken place as he can be. That's why when Moiraine approaches her, white-faced and hurrying, she feels overwhelming guilt.

"They brought him back," is all the human says. The black-haired elf's face turns stony. Those are the words she expects to hear. Surana stands slowly and says nothing as her best friend leads the way down to the bottom floor. There is no procession, but apprentices and younger mages alike are milling around the area. It's a gossip mill.

Anders is nowhere to be seen. They've already moved him somewhere else. Tamsin's heart plummets when she realizes this, having already pushed her way to the front of the crowd. Disappointment crushes her. The group of apprentices next to her are whispering feverously.

"-six months…"

"Solitary confinement… basement…"

"-harsh… you think?"

She picks up fragments of their talk despite their low volume, enough to figure out where Anders is. She feels hollow, her eyes dry and tears already long cried. She backs out of the crowd, guilt consuming her. There was no way her wishes had anything to do with the outcomes, but she couldn't help but feel bad for wishing this on him for even a moment.

She rushes away from the entrance. Moiraine calls for her, and Jowan tries to grab her arm, but she jerks her way free and runs from the area. She is numb.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 **9:29 Dragon, Circle Tower**

This is what she wanted, but it sends her into turmoil. She almost regrets the words said in anger, some time ago now. _You didn't even tell me_ , she'd said. She'd scolded him, shouted at him, and ultimately broken down in front of him. He hadn't known how to react. They pretended it never happened. But now, here he is, standing in front of her, looking as though he expects her to try and land a blow.

 _I'm leaving tonight_. The words he'd said echo, bouncing around inside her head. She doesn't know how to react, doesn't know what to do. Can't tell if she should ask for more information or go bury herself in her bunk and pretend she never even knew. Anders' face slowly retracts from fear, to nervousness, and finally, to concern.

"Tamsin?" he prods her. She blinks out of her stupor—Anders usually calls her Surana—to look at Anders, but her attention is drawn by the window behind him. She walks straight past him and over to it. She pushes the shutters, which are already ajar, open, and leans out into the dusk light. Clouds cover the sky, the ground is damp from rain. She breathes in heavily, taking in the scent of the fresh rainfall. She slowly leans farther out the window, reaching farther for more air, more sun. She is startled by Anders' hand on her shoulder, and she spins around to face him.

"I'm coming."

She doesn't give herself any time to consider, high on fresh air. A few unreadable emotions pass over Anders' face before it settles on resolve. He nods decisively and turns around, gesturing for her to follow.

She does, and he begins walking her through his plan.

They make it two weeks. Surana realizes she's slowing him down about halfway to Gwaren. Anders thinks it's a better bet; they'd look in Denerim's ports first. Anders is trying to go to Kirkwall, and there's no stopping him. This she knows, and it's all she can do to keep up.

All she wants to do it stop and savour the world she hadn't experienced since she was six years old. She had no memories of how grass felt on her feet, or the sun on her skin. She'd never swam before in her life. It's all new, it's all exciting, and those two weeks are probably the best of her life.

They ditched their robes in a small village and stole laundry off the line. It's leaving a trail, she thinks, but she doesn't correct Anders' methods. He must know better, she convinces herself of it.

The people in the villages they pass through were what she expected to be awed by. More strangers than she had seen in eleven years. It isn't, to her surprise. It's the nature. There are people in the tower, and yes—some are strangers. There are faces she doesn't know. It's a big place, considering it is the only one in all of Ferelden. It's a _big_ tower.

But there are no trees, no rain, no sun, no grass. No flowers. These are the things she marvels at.

She can tell Anders is in a state of stress. He wants Kirkwall, he wants Karl, desperately. His rush to get there doesn't pause for her childlike wonder, though every now and then she sees his eyes soften. It's all that lessens the wounds on her heart from his distance. And his hurry to see another person.

Gwaren smells like filth, like all big cities. It reminds her of home, of Denerim's alienage. She revels in it.

That is, until a smite crashes over her. It's an unfamiliar feeling, and she doesn't understand what it is right away. It's not just a magic drain, which can be violent, unpleasant, and frightening; it's a holy fucking smite, and she falls to the ground in the middle of the crowd. Anders had been farther from her, attempting to find passage while she hung back. She regrets it. Nausea floods her and she curls in around her knees. The complete, utter absence of magicka pains her as her aura frantically and reflexively flies out from her body, violently reaching to grab anything. She has to consciously reign it in before she begins experimenting with ambient magics as a side effect. It's all she can manage, and controlling her aura has the opposite effect on her. It retreats as far as possible into her mind, leaving a bone-deep chill in her body.

Something else grapples with her aura; she is contained and completely helpless. She rolls herself onto her side and heaves violently, the contents of her stomach coming up in waves over the pavement. She's barely able to notice the civilians rushing to make a space around her, forming a ring. The last thing she sees is Ander's concerned face bursting through the crowd, only to be grabbed by metal hands—

She comes to in the back of a wagon, wrists chained. Her head is pounding, the light only causing her more pain. The rough wood digs into her bare arms and into her back where her shirt had ridden up. Her arms are shackled behind her, and she can't sense her magic at all. The loss is still terrifying and she feels utterly empty, but she now expects it, so she avoids the panic. She squints around.

Anders is across from her, sitting with his back against the wall of the wagon. They aren't closed in, though she supposes templar swords are a rather good incentive. Their escort is made up of four templars and as many horses.

The look on Anders' face says bitterness, anger, and longing. She wonders if he is plotting an escape route, but knows she stands no chance. She hopes he can get away, but resigns herself to her fate in that moment. The pain and emptiness is too much. All she can hope for is a merciful punishment. Anders doesn't even have that hope, she realizes.

She doesn't like thinking about what he was like after he came out of solitary the last time, and she doesn't like thinking that he might be going back there.

She rolls her head back without meeting Anders' eyes. Guilt consumes her; he may have gotten away without her as a vulnerability. Her eyes slide closed and she falls into unconsciousness again.

By their arrival at Kinloch Hold, she still hasn't dared even look Anders in the eye. She wonders if he is angry with her and doesn't want to know. The templars march them in by the arms, still shackled behind their backs. After the travel, her whole body screams, especially her arms from being tied behind her. They were only released when they were piled into the boat to row over to the tower.

To her relief, there is no one waiting inside. She almost expected a twisted gossip party, standing around waiting for her to be flogged. A few templars were milling around the entryway as usual; it was constantly guarded. Her relief melted down from her chest and froze at the pit of her stomach, turning into bitter fear as they were steered into the basement. She'd never been down there before, and for the first time since waking up, she meets Anders' eyes.

He returns the look stonily, and it sends a flash of pain to her chest. She suppresses a sob of fear and pain, and he watches the expressions cross her face. The elf only catches a brief look of pity and guilt before she can't look any longer, and watches the floor as she is marched into a cell.

The sound of the door slamming shut behind the templar as he leaves echoes down the hallway. She doesn't look up immediately, studying the cobblestone floor beneath her feet. There is a rug, a simple, rough material with no decoration. The room is dark, and it takes her eyes time to adjust before she can see those details. Slowly, she raises her head. A small bed on one side with thin linens and two pillows. A lone, rickety stool sits at the edge of a simple wooden table. There is a drawer on it, which she takes a shaky step to open. She finds inside a pack of matches. A candle sits on the desk, unlit, and she quickly remedies that. The light illuminates the small room effectively.

She doesn't have to test her magic to know that it is supressed here. The empty feeling of her aura's absence was a wearying, unnatural feeling, and she had grasped at precious moments of freedom between the boat and her new abode. Now it was gone.

"How long will I be in here?" she wonders aloud, taking some kind of comfort in the sound of her own voice.

When the templar comes back in, she doesn't ask him, and he doesn't offer the information. He looks uncomfortable as he sets down a tray of food on the desk and instructs her to push it out the door when she is finished. She keeps her silence until he finally asks her something.

"You're permitted to read. What types of books?" the templar, helmless—an initiate? Not possible. Just kind? —looks as unused to the situation as she does. He's old enough to be her father, with graying hair and crow's feet in the corners of his eyes. She wonders if a less generous templar wouldn't have offered. The question gives her pause, though. After all, there were few requests she could make. She'd read every readily available history book, and didn't want to ask for a book on magical theory on anything above a basic level from a templar. There were books on other subjects, but she had perused enough of those to be concerned about getting books she'd already read. Then, she settles on an idea.

"Romance, ser," she replies, attempting and succeeding in looking meek. She looks at the floor while she talks, only glancing up at the man after a moment. He catches her eyes and nods resolutely before retreating from the room.

And she is left alone.

At first, she dismisses the solitude. The boredom is the first thing that occurs to her as she lays back on her cot to consider the situation. Well, she'd read. It was all she liked doing anyway: reading, alone. Really, for her, this could be quite the vacation, even if it was romance books she'd be reading. She could get a laugh or two, and perhaps some would have at least a slightly enthralling story. Resolved to be grateful for the blessed privacy she'd always wished for, she slides onto her stool to scarf down the leftover porridge the templar left.

When her dinner is shoved under the door later that day, a book is with it, as well as a spare candle. It's called _His Queen_ , and as requested, it's a romance. She spends a while reading it, and with little else to do, she manages to enjoy it mildly. She's halfway through when she goes to sleep, and the next day, when she finishes it, she shoves it under the door again. It is picked up with her empty food tray, and a new book is there with her evening meal.

For a while, this routine is bearable. The lack of sunlight is something she's accustomed to, though candlelight is a severe downgrade from the usual magical lighting in the circle. It feels much less like real light and makes her feel as though she's living in a cave. But ultimately, it isn't unbearable, just uncomfortable. She wished for full brightness, where once she was happiest by candlelight.

She brings her tray of food up to the table. She's always given leftover from whatever they were having upstairs, and today it is fish with potatoes, one of her favourites. The elf manages a small amount of cheer from this as she scratches another notch in the table with the end of her fork. One for every meal, grouped in twos to count the days. She drags her left hand across them, counting, as she eats. It hasn't been long, yet.

The next thing to get to her was the silence. The walls there are thick, and she can hear nothing until the meal tray comes by. If she knew songs to sing, she would've sung them. Instead, she begins talking to herself at times, only to make some noise. Her more benign thoughts, she forces out of her mouth. At first, her voice cracks with disuse—how long has it been?—but it evens out eventually.

She speaks to herself about Moiraine and Jowan, avoiding the subject of Anders as she had since entering this place. She couldn't bear to think about him suffering the same fate. The blonde was built for this far less than she was, a people person at heart, charismatic and friendly. And he'd already been here before. She shivers at the memory before picking up her newest romance novel. This time, she reads sections aloud to herself.

And yet, even her nights are lonely. She cannot dream in the cell, with her magic suppressed. She wonders if Curiosity worries about her.

She takes to exercising in the mornings. She tumbles her sheets onto the floor so that the stones don't dig into her skin while she works out on the floor. As a few days pass, she exercised for longer and longer, spending most of her days sore to the bone. The elf stretches frequently, revelling in the painful soreness in her muscles. It satisfies her, distracts her as the days pass.

It doesn't last. It isn't enough. She's seated at her table, candle burned down low, tracing her hands over the scratches on the table. She tries to count them but can't anymore, losing track as the lines spread across the table and back, then across again, over and over, days passing. Her muscles are getting used to the strain, the pain is no longer enough to ground her. Food is slid under her door, but she makes no notice. Tears leak from her eyes, pooling into the scores in the wood as she chokes out sobs, shivers wracking through her body.

The next morning, her eyes have dried, but she feels no better. She hasn't moved, still sitting on the stool with her upper body sprawled over the table. The position is uncomfortable, with corners digging painfully into her skin, but she is drained. The reading no longer occupies her for long, the exercise no longer keeps her sane. She hasn't slept.

Abruptly, the door is open and light filters into the room at an alarming rate. Tamsin springs to her feet, knees bent. She takes a fighting stance first, but as the outline of an armoured templar steps into the room, her feet carry her backwards until she collides with the wall. Suddenly, her vision is fuzzy, blurring from the exposure to light, and she finds she can no longer breathe. Pain grabs her chest like a vice, constricting, and her throat feels tight. She opens her mouth to speak, to scream, to breathe, and finds none of it works. She gulps for air, quicker and quicker, as the templar approaches her, step by step, until her vision blurs completely and her lungs can't find air any longer.

When she comes to, she is on her bed, on top of the covers, a new candle has been lit, and the door is closed. She is alone. It is both a comfort and a curse. Tamsin pulls herself to her feet, head throbbing. She wishes it was the type of pain that grounds her. There is a plate of food sitting on the table, and this time she pauses in her thoughts to eat it. She finds she doesn't want someone coming into her space again. After the plate is finished, her headache is eased, though not gone.

Resigned, she turns to push-ups on the floor. She had long since stopped throwing her sheets to the floor in order to cushion her, but this time she goes further; she flips the floormat up and begins to exercise on the rough stone floor. Her robes and boots were abandoned long ago, so as she works, her toes grip the jagged surface.

She lifts herself up and down, up and down, without pause, without any sense of time. All she can focus on is the feeling of the coarse stones scraping the palms of her hands and pads of her feet. She feels her skin rip and tear, feels her hands become wet, but still does not halt. Pain, pain means one is living, and that is all she can hold onto.

Pain feels like an old friend.

She does sit-ups on the rugged ground, stone digging into her skin and wetting her mostly bare back with blood. The elf goes so far as to tie up her hair and pull off her breastband, baring herself fully to the merciless ground as the effectively drags herself across it, day after day.

The scratches on the table stop. She loses track of time entirely; nothing but pain, food, and sleep remain to her.

One day, she beats her fists bloody against the door, scouting and screaming, punching and clawing until she passes out in front of it, sheer expenditure taking her from the waking world. She'd long since forgotten the feeling of the Fade, of magic, but still feels the loss keenly. Something in her is missing, something vital.

With so long living in the dark, what is there left to do but descend into madness?

 _Drip. Drip. Drip._ It must be raining outside.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 **9:30 Dragon, Circle Tower**

"Magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him," Greagoir quotes. This is the first time Tamsin's seen him in a while. She heard he'd been sent to Denerim, and even that he'd been unhappy with her bout in solitary. It was far too late to feel grateful for his pity, though, especially not with him quoting the Chant of Light at her. "Thus spoke the prophet Andraste as she cast down the Tevinter Imperium, ruled by mages who had brought the world to the edge of ruin."Tamsin refrains from sighing at the line, sick of Chantry teachings. Magic is useless if you're afraid to properly use it, though she fears that even after this test she won't have a proper chance to experiment in her life.

"The ritual sends you into the Fade, and there you will face a demon, armed with only your will," Irving cuts in, guiding her forwards.

Moments later, she found herself standing in front of a font of lyrium. She'd been woken in the middle of the night, overall, she felt a bit in disarray. Even after a couple of months, when the door to the upper floor room they were in swung closed, she felt a flash of panic grip her chest before subsiding, even with the presence of so many other people. Not that templars were a generally comforting feature of the tower, as Greagoir seemingly desires to prove.

"Know this, apprentice: if you fail, we templars will perform our duty. You will die."

As she dipped her hand into the blue liquid, it began to glow and slowly enveloped her body. She raised her arm quickly, jerking it away from the font, but didn't take a step back, thinking perhaps it was part of the test. She expected that there may be pain, but instead finds her vision fading.

When it clears, she is standing in the Fade. There is no doubt about it. Her surroundings appear similar to those she sees when exiting her dreamspace. The in between, the default state of the Fade. She believes it unshapable, or at least less malleable than dreamspaces, and so doesn't try to shape her surroundings. In her experience, once she was outside of her dreamspace it became much more solid, but she herself felt less solid.

She doesn't feel that way this time. Really, she feels more secure and solid than she had ever been in her dreams, but it isn't a pleasant feeling. She feels less powerful, less flexible, even more vulnerable. The elf turns her attention to the test at hand, and with no sign of the demon she was to face, she journeys deeper into the fade.

The apprentice follows the path set out before her. Had it not been for her escape attempt and time spent in solitary confinement, she would've gone through this trial years ago. She was rather old for an apprentice, but her 'misbehaviour,' as the First Enchanter had called it, had severely pushed back her progress. Skipping classes for years on end, then finally leaving with Anders… Regardless, she is relieved to finally finish the test. Where some feel nerves, Tamsin only feels a frustration at having to do it.

As she begins to walk, she attempts to meld her surroundings, to change her clothes, to create a staff, and when that fails, she attempts a simple rock, only to fail again. The world around her feels wrong; it is like she isn't in her own Fade. It feels as though she's in a dreamworld of someone else's creation, where she has no control.

She wonders briefly how such a thing was supposed to prove her competency.

The first living thing she encounters—are the residents of the Fade living?—is a wisp. They'd never been hostile to her in her own dreams, but this one looks different, feels different. She doesn't attack immediately, but the wisp quickly shows itself to be hostile, and she raises an arm to dissipate it. The trick does not work, as it would in her own dream, and she has to duck under a projectile. With regret, she instead sends a spear of force magic into its core, killing it firmly from the inside.

"Someone else thrown to the wolves. As fresh and unprepared as ever." The voice startles her, and she glances around for the source. When it speaks next, her eyes land on a mouse. Speaking. Well, there were stranger things than that in the Fade. "It isn't right that they do this, the templars. Not to you, me, anyone."

"Uhh. Okay," is all Tamsin says. The mouse seems rather more intense about all this than she is, as much as she does disagree with the test. In her opinion, it is useless, no cruel. Though, from what she'd heard in her earliest lessons at the Tower, most mages didn't dream as vividly as she. She wonders if perhaps it is more difficult for one who does not routinely spend nights in the Fade, pushing their boundaries and speaking with a spirit of Curiosity.

She moves to walk past the mouse, not interested in wasting any time. There is a templar waiting with a sword to her neck, just in case she takes too long, after all. The mouse glows, and suddenly a man is standing in his place.

"Wait," he interrupts. "Allow me to welcome you to the Fade. You can call me… well, Mouse."

"What, don't have a name?"

"I did, before. It's fuzzy. They wake you up in the middle of the night and drag you to the Harrowing chamber and then… The templars kill you if you take too long, you see. They figure you failed, and don't want something getting out. That's what they did to me, I think. I have no body to reclaim. And you don't have much time before you end up the same."

"So why are you slowing me down?" she demands. It's easier in the Fade. To say what one means. She brushes past him. He lets her, but skitters behind her to keep up with her determined pace as she stalks deeper into the Fade.

"The demon you are to face has been contained here, waiting for you to face it. There are other spirits, as well, if you can convince one to help you. I'll follow, if you don't mind. My chance was long ago, but you… you may have a way out."

The man glows again, reverting to mouse form. Tamsin ignores him, rushing deeper into the Fade. She's uninterested in dallying, and only wants the skin-crawling feeling of this rigid dream to be over. It doesn't take her long at all to spot a clearing, surrounded in fire sconces. It's glaringly her objective, but she does notice that the path winds deeper into the Fade past it.

One part of her urges her to explore, but her desire to be out of this dreamworld drives her to step unprepared into the summoning circle. Mouse, having abruptly transformed into a man again, grabs her arm to stop her.

"There are other spirits—"

She shakes him off. "I'm getting out of here."

Mouse lingers in the area in his animal form, but Tamsin pays him no mind. As soon as she steps inside the circle, lava bubbles on the ground, and a rage demon sprouts. It stretches, arching its grotesque figure. The construct of fire and molten rock looms a few feet taller than her, its eyes blazing holes, and its perverted mouth changing sizes entirely as its expressions change.

"It arrives!" the figure glides towards her, and she refuses to backpedal. "Soon I will see the world through your eyes!"

"Don't you need my permission for that shit?" she retorts.

"Oh, no, mortal! The rules have changed indeed. You will be mine," the thing growls.

"If it's a fight you want, get to it, I'd be glad to end your pitiful existence."

"We shall see," it taunts, firing a flame bolt at her unexpectedly. She throws a hurried barrier in front of it, which takes the impact readily. She retaliates quickly, icing its sides, attempting to dig the frozen substance into its body.

To her surprise, she feels her power deplete with the effort. It isn't much, as she hasn't used many spells yet, but only a minor dip. The surprise is because if she is in the Fade, she should not be expending magicka. Her surroundings should be pure magic, able to be tapped and formed to her will. It is unnatural.

The demon rushes towards her, and she barriers herself again, sending bolts of spirit into its core. It tears at the flesh, leaving gaping holes in its body. The demon is slowed, but continues its advance. The elf jumps to the side, out of the way of a slash with its claws, and ducks out of range again. She sends ice again into its core, this time taking advantage of the wounds her bolts had left, and the creature freezes from the inside out. Encased in ice, the being of fire was barely living. She spins, delivering one solid kick to its core, and the ice and molten rock shatter, leaving a steaming mess in its wake.

She waits, expecting to return to the waking world, but it doesn't happen. The test is not over. She contemplates if perhaps it had more depth than she gave it credit for. When she turns around, Mouse greets her in human form.

"You did it. You actually did it!" he exclaims.

"Anyone could do that," she replies. The praise isn't flattering, but rather makes her question the man's intelligence. It was one demon, a rage demon at that. Nothing she had done had been impressive, and she knew herself to be prone to being prideful, so it must be true. She isn't a humble woman.

"Nonsense," he disagrees. "When you came, I hoped that maybe you might be able to… but I never really thought any of you were worthy! The others, they never had a chance. The templars set them up to fail, like they tried with you. You are a true mage; one of few. You can be so much more than you know."

"What do you want?" He's giving her weak praise. Nothing worth preening about, and she grumbles about it.

"You defeated a demon, you completed your test. With time, you will be a master enchanter with no equal. And maybe there's hope in that for someone as small and as… forgotten as me. If you want to help. There may be a way for me to leave here, to get a foothold outside. You just need to want to let me in."

"Why would I want you riding around in my head? Fuck off, Mouse." Something else that wants out of the Fade. Demon, spirit of an apprentice, Tamsin doesn't care. Her head is her own and she isn't interested in sharing, for any cause. She turns abruptly away from the mouse, stalking towards the outside of the circle. Behind her, he continues talking, his voice deepening gradually, descending into something inhuman, something abhorrent.

"You are a smart one. Simple killing is a warrior's job. The real dangers of the Fade are preconceptions, careless trust… _pride_. Keep your wits about you, mage," the voice taunts as her surroundings begin to fade. "True tests never end."

Jowan is concerned about his Harrowing. He says they're going to make him Tranquil, that they think he's practicing blood magic. Surana doesn't believe it, not as she watches him stutter and fumble about. He didn't seem strong enough.

Though in truth, she is impressed with this plan of his. Not that it was the most well constructed, but that he dared to do such a thing at all. He must be desperate, she thinks, or perhaps he really is this in love with Lily. Or this afraid of being Tranquil, she remembers with a shiver. She doesn't want to think about what that would be like.

She trails behind Jowan and Lily as they hurry up the stairs to the foyer. The elf had spoken with that Grey Warden, Duncan, earlier, and couldn't get it out of her head. Mages that joined the Grey Wardens weren't hunted. Perhaps it wouldn't be complete freedom, but she could go outside, and she could use her magic. The Commander had even suggested that blood magic could be overlooked, so that meant there must be a fair bit of flexibility with unconventional means.

It was all Surana could do to refrain from begging him to recruit her. She thought that might put him off. No, she intended to get his attention somehow. Training, perhaps. If he was potentially recruiting, he'd have to be looking, and she's going to draw that attention.

Jowan pushes the door open first, and the women follow quickly behind, Surana intending to turn into bed and pretend none of this ever happened.

It doesn't go as planned. The Knight Commander, the First Enchanter, waiting for them. Surana's stomach drops. Her hopes to be recruited by Duncan were likely crushed, now. Suddenly, Greagoir's attention is on her.

"And this one, newly a mage, and already flouting the rules of the Circle."

"It's not her fault! This was my idea!" Jowan interjects, and Tamsin feels slightly warm inside over his defense of her. It surprises her. She considered him a friend, but never had much respect for him.

"I did go along with it," the elf acknowledges. Greagoir raises his arms.

"Enough! As knight-commander of the templars here assembled, I sentence this blood mage to death." Tamsin's stomach falls to the floor. Jowan, really? It wasn't possible.

"You can't be ser—" Greagoir holds his hand up in front of her, silencing.

"And this initiate has scorned the Chantry and her vows. Take her to Aeonar."

Lily cowers, and Tamsin dismisses it as the templars approach her. Her indifference turns to shock when she sees Jowan pull out his belt knife and slice his arm open, blood rushing into the air, turning into power. She feels it pull at her own mana when she instinctively prods the magic with her own aura. It piques her curiosity before she is abruptly jolted from her stupor when Jowan floors all of the templars and the First Enchanter in one fowl swoop. Tamsin's eyes bug out of her head.

Jowan barely has time to flee the building before they begin to rise again, Lily having declined to go with him, to Surana's surprise. She considered running as well, but it would only be as hopeless as it had been the last time as long as they had her phylactery.

"I knew it… blood magic. But to overcome so many, I never thought him capable of such power," Greagoir begins as he pulls himself to his feet.

"I didn't think him capable of such a thing," Surana mutters, more to herself than the others, though it is quiet enough they hear her.

"None of us expected this," Irving consoles. "Are you all right, Greagoir?"

"As good as can be expected, given the circumstances! If you had let me act sooner, this would not have happened! Now we have a blood mage on the loose, and no way to track him down! Where is the girl?" he snaps. All heads turn to Lily, hiding near the door.

"I am here, ser," she stutters. Greagoir stalks towards her and Tamsin turns her attention to Irving next to her.

"Are you well?" he asks her quietly. She nods in simple reply. The First Enchanter had always been kind to her, at least, even if he didn't have any more of a backbone than she did. She wishes she were stronger.

"Overwhelmed," Tamsin mutters before Greagoir spins on her.

"And you!" he shouts. "You were in a repository full of magics that are locked away for a reason."

Surana fails to mention that it was the most interesting thing she's ever seen, and would've loved to have spent a year down there exploring and experimenting.

"Did you take anything important from the repository?" Irving asks.

"No," She informs him, and it is true. She refrained from taking anything for later while she was there, intending only to help Jowan and be on her way. She didn't want this following her once they were in the clear.

"I believe you," Irving defends her.

"But your antics have made a mockery of this Circle! Ah, what are we to do with you?"

The resulting argument between Irving and Greagoir flies from her mind as she hears movement behind her. She turns her head to see Duncan approaching, and her heart sinks. He's about to see her at her worst, and he won't want her for the army or for the Wardens after this.

"Knight-Commander, if I may. I am not only looking for mages to join the king's army, I am also recruiting for the Grey Wardens. Irving spoke highly of this mage, and I would like her to join the Warden ranks."

Tamsin's mouth falls open as she gasps, a complete turnaround from her expectations. Greagoir moves to speak, but she interrupts him.

"I want to go."

"You promised him a new Grey Warden?" Greagoir seems outraged, but she remembers the Right of Conscription and hopes it will be enough, that she will be worth that.

"She is skilled. She would make an excellent Grey Warden." It appears that Irving thinks rather highly of her, despite her recent escape attempt. He always liked her curiosity, though it perhaps worried him, though she was smart enough to stick to theory.

"We look for dedication in our recruits. Fighting the darkspawn requires such dedication, often at the expense of all else." Surana isn't sure about dedication, but if he was going to get her out of here, she'd happily sign up for whatever he wanted her to until she was safely in and could disappear among the other faces.

"I object. She aided a blood mage! She cannot be trusted. I must investigate this issue, and I will not release this mage to the Grey Wardens," Greagoir orders. It's firm, it's final. Tamsin's face falls.

"Greagoir, mages are needed. This mage is needed. Worse things plgue this world than blood mages. You know that. I take this mage under my wing and bear all responsibility for her actions," Duncan argues calmly. Greagoir's face is turning purple, to Tamsin's delight, and she feels hope fill her again. She hopes it won't be crushed.

"Duncan, this mage does not deserve a place in the Order. Conspiring with a blood mage, fleeing the tower, aiding others in escaping—she is not trustworthy!" Surana wonders if perhaps he is correct. She does have intentions of leaving the Order, after all, so she can't claim noble purpose. She feels a minor twinge of guilt, but it is gone quickly. Such things for Greagoir were not what they were for her.

"What do you think will become of her if she is to remain here, Greagoir? It will only become worse. Let the Grey Wardens be responsible for her, where she can use her power to do some good," Irving says, and it seems that Greagoir will not be getting his way. The First Enchanter turns to the young mage and leaves her with a few typical words of wisdom. "You have an opportunity few even dream of. Do not squander it." At that, she wonders if he is aware of what types of thoughts are in her head at the moment. Perhaps he knows her better than she thought he did. Surana is bursting with energy and cannot help it anymore.

"When can we leave?"

Duncan cracks a slight smile, stepping aside and gesturing to the door. "Now, of course."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 **9:30 Dragon, Road to Ostagar**

They travelled on foot through the countryside. It was only two days' journey to the King's camp at Ostagar, and they'd gotten an early start the morning he'd recruited her. It had still been dark. The Warden Commander had been surprised, and perhaps a bit disturbed by the concept that Tamsin didn't have anything to pack. That she didn't have belongings, really, only a couple of journals that didn't mean too much now that she was leaving. Morgase will deal with those—probably already has.

Instead, they headed immediately outside, not wanting to impose on the tenuous hospitality of the knight-commander. It delighted Tamsin; she let her fingers drag through the water as they were rowed across the lake, watched the sunrise with a childlike wonder, and took off her shoes to walk with the ground underneath her feet as she had as a child. Duncan didn't mind, rather, he seemed to watch with amusement. He let her enjoy the world in silence as the sun rose to reveal a beautiful day, but eventually began to give her the rundown of the situation.

"So, it is a Blight," she confirms as they pause for a break. Tamsin is unaccustomed to the walking they were doing, having lived her life in the circle, though she found herself more athletic after her recent time in solitary than she had been before, considering the compulsive exercises she'd found herself doing. Morgase had wondered at the change in appearance after she was returned to the general population. Her face was hollow, her skin pale and her features sunken, yet her arms, legs, and core were toned and more accustomed to movement than ever before. She hadn't kept it up in the last two months, though.

"It is," Duncan says. She nods solemnly, wondering what this means for her intentions to leave. She doubles down on her own thoughts. This would change nothing.

"I suppose we'd better move quickly then," Tamsin says half-heartedly. It doesn't seem real, not really. A Blight? She doesn't think Duncan is lying, but she can't imagine it being possible, or that such a thing would affect her of all people. She barely believes she's outside of the Tower without Templars hunting her.

"Let me know if you want to rest," Duncan orders, a look of concern on his face. Tamsin grins at him, boots still in her pack, bare feet touching the rough stone path and the cool grass. Pure adrenaline at being outside would keep her moving for a while.

She doesn't want to rest. She wants to move, and despite her stifling circle robes, she feels the fresh air as though it is pure energy.

At the end of the day's journey, they've covered the ground that Duncan wanted them to, and they halt at the nearest inn. Duncan pays for two rooms, and informs her that she would receive a stipend from the Wardens, when this was all over, and it was organized. The idea piques her curiosity, considering it meant she'd be able to afford to feed herself.

"And two meals," he finishes telling the barmaid. She confirms quickly, gesturing for them to sit down, and they pull up chairs at a small table off to the side. Surana manoeuvres herself to have her back to the wall, something she'd become accustomed to in the months since solitary. The idea of people being around her, especially in such quantities, wasn't something she was accustomed to yet. On one hand, she's thrilled to be out in the open, with strangers and smells and sounds like she hasn't seen in years, but on the other hand, every time a door closes, she feels as though it's all going to go dark again, and when she's surrounded by people, she feels an acute discomfort. Having her back to the wall so she can see everyone in the room provides her some small comfort.

The barmaid returns quickly with two steaming hot plates of food and two mugs of something. Surana ignores the food in front of her in favour of inspecting the drink, despite her hunger. She sniffs it, and it doesn't smell like anything she's smelled since she was a child hiding out behind the tavern in Denerim hoping to steal scraps. So, this is ale. She's never tried it in her life.

She takes an experimental sip, and the consistency surprises her first. It's ever so slightly fizzy, and she purses her lips, then the flavour hit her, and her face screws up even more. She forces herself to swallow it, and the after taste isn't unpleasant. She slowly remembers she isn't alone, and she looks up at the Warden Commander. His eyebrows are raised, his lips turned upwards in faint amusement. The elf blushes, setting down her ale and turning her attention to the food.

"You've never had ale?" he finally asks. She raises only her eyes to look at him.

"We aren't permitted to drink until we become Enchanters, and even then, just wine," Surana informs him. "I've… had wine."

"You stole wine?" he questions further. His amusement seems only to grow further.

"Er, well, not me, exactly. Friends. A friend, every so often," Tamsin admits, considering it only seems to entertain.

"Well, enjoy the ale," he suggests, taking a sip from his own. He makes a show of glancing around before continuing, raising his mug. She brings hers up to match. "Though, I'll admit, it's quite bad. Bottoms up, as it were." He taps his mug against hers and takes a large draught of ale, so she mirrors the action, nearly coughing when its done. She laughs afterwards, and so does he. Perhaps she could get used to this Grey Warden shit.

Later, with the mug of ale and the food gone, she feels the strange fuzzy feeling in her head, though the mildest she's ever felt it. She knows she isn't even tipsy, but being affected by it even in the slightest makes her want to order another. The flavour had gotten better as she drank it as well. Sadly, or perhaps luckily, Duncan doesn't offer, instead suggesting they get some rest before bed.

He shows her to her room, and she opens the door, just barely stepping over the threshold before he leaves for his own. The door isn't closed behind her, and when she steps into the darkness, she doesn't want to. The room is dark, and she wonders for a moment about fumbling for matches, before she realizes she can use magic.

With wonder, she summons a few balls of light in the center of her hands and sends them flying out across the ceiling. In the tower, it would've had a templar busting down the nonexistent door. She spends a few moments in awe, realizing she can finally play with her magic for real, outside of supervised lessons. She would've been allowed more leeway after her Harrowing, but she'd barely spent a day there after it and so never experienced that freedom.

Still, even with the room illuminated, it takes her a long time to close the door. First, she eases it halfway closed, before feeling her throat close and swinging the door wide open again. The inn room is, inconveniently, about the size of the cell she'd spent most of the last year inside. There is a bed in the corner, a side table with candles, and a dresser. On the wall is a large window, with the shutters latched shut.

Seeing an opportunity, Tamsin walks across the room to throw the window open. With the night air and a view of the town in front of her, she manages to close the bedroom door and immediately retreat to the open window. The elf leans out of it, feeling relief at the freedom that she could literally jump out of it. The cold bite to the air harkens the coming of fall, but she ignores it. She feels tiredness pulling at the corners of her eyes, and tries to pull herself away from the window to lay in the bed.

She can't bring herself to lay under the blankets; they're too restrictive. She manages to lay, eyes glued on the window, though she can't see out of it from the angle she is at. Surana loses track of how long she lays there trying to sleep, a pressure pushing down on her chest as she nervously looks to the window every few seconds between trying to close her eyes and relax.

Frustrated, she stands up and moves the table out from in front of the window. She pushes back her black hair, turning her attention to the bed, and slowly drags it by one of the posts, inch by inch, to the window.

The end results are crooked, but it is enough that she's able to prop a pillow up against the window and lay against the windowsill. As soon as she reclines in the position, sleep takes her.

The sun rises facing the window, waking Tamsin up at the crack of dawn. Her limbs are stiff from the chill, her muscles sore from shivering, and she wonders how she slept through it. In the light of day, the room is easier to bare, and she stands up, figuring she should move everything back, in case Duncan came in and saw it.

So, she tries to push the bed back without making a sound, finding it a slower, more arduous process than it had been the previous night, but she gets it done. The elf is trying to bring herself to close the window when she hears a knock on the door, so she abandons the attempt and turns to answer it.

"Good, you're awake. Are you ready to go?" he asks, and Tamsin notices that he already had all his things packed on his back.

"Yes," she agrees, turning back to the room to check if anything is out of place. She has no belongings to gather, and so turns back to Duncan with a shrug and a gesture, closing the door behind them. She hopes they don't have to stay at an inn again. She'd rather sleep on the ground.

Thankfully, she is set up in a tent at Ostagar that night. It is a relief, really, as a bit of fabric is much easier to bear. The scent of fresh air is stifled by the presence of an army camp at Ostagar; instead, filth, blood, meat and shit permeate the air. The Warden recruits have a small section in the King's camp. Tamsin's only memories of before the circle are rather brutal and not very endearing towards noble, important people, but even still, bumping into the King upon entering camp was an unsettling experience. In the morning, she's to head out of camp with some senior warden, Alistair, to work towards this mysterious Joining. If she's lucky, she'll find the plant that poor dog needs. She's always had a soft spot for dogs.

No big deal, no, it's none at all. Drink some darkspawn blood, possibly die. Refuse, die. Tamsin breathes heavily, eyes stuck on the dead men beside her. It's an easy decision, of course. Duncan stands with the goblet in hand, offering it to her, Jory's blood still fresh on his clothes. The elf takes the goblet hesitantly, but when it comes down to it, there's no other option. A chance of survival is it.

The blood is vile. It took a moment to kick in; she thinks she's about to go like Daveth did. Pain follows the acidic blood down her throat, burning, and hits her stomach like fire. It spreads, a feeling of pure evil, through her veins, seeping into her blood and organs and every moment is pure agony. Her vision flashes white and Duncan is speaking but she can't focus on the words. Through it all, she topples over.

When she rises, she isn't herself. The darkness is beauty; it is seductive, it is pure desire, pure love – the adoration one feels for a mother, but not quite. A creator. A god. And it is more beautiful than anything she has seen in the waking world or the Fade. A sameness reverberates between her and her siblings. She is surrounded, of late an unfamiliar and alarming sensation, but she doesn't feel threatened. The emotions sweep through her as though they are pulling her up on her toes and even higher into the sky. She can fly, she's light as air; underneath it all is pure terror. It isn't the kind you feel as you sink to the bottom of a lake, unable to breathe, nor is it the kind you feel when you stand on the precipice of a cliff. It goes further. It is bone-deep, no, deeper than bones; it pierces the soul. It is a terror so deep that there is no conceivable reaction to such a thing. The song is beautiful; a sound as inconceivably beautiful as the fear is inconceivably excruciating. And him. They all look at him, the dragon, the creator, the god. His massive, gory head turns and his eyes lock onto her. The terror takes root, bursting forwards, pushing out of her as though she cannot physically contain it anymore.

Tamsin wakes up. The terror is still there. She thinks she's lucky not to have screamed in front of the two Wardens. For a moment, she struggles with the return to reality before placing their names: Duncan and Alistair. Slowly, things return to normal.

"Did you have dreams? I had terrible dreams the night of my Joining," Alistair explains. Tamsin doesn't reply. The terror is still ebbing from her. Alistair makes her weary regardless; she wouldn't be confiding in a near-templar anytime soon.

"Such dreams come when you begin to sense the darkspawn, as we all do. That and many other things can be explained in the months to come."

The Wardens – it would be strange to begin to think of herself as one – leave her with an amulet and retreat from the room. She reclines on the bed, staring deeply at the medallion in her hand. It's nothing pretty. It's harsh iron, unrefined, rough, with a crude griffon stamped on the front. A darkspawn hunter. That's Tamsin, now, and she isn't sure what to think of it. Somehow, with the prospect of leaving and adventures, the idea of things becoming so serious and permanent so quickly hadn't occurred to her. It left her with a sombre mood, thinking of Jory and Daveth. Daveth would've been a better Warden than she will be. He cared for the cause. Tamsin knows she isn't here for her morals. She's here for freedom, and it feels oddly like losing it when she slips the chain around her neck.

Fighting darkspawn in the wilds was one thing. Beating your way up an infested tower with strangers at your side was another thing altogether. There was no time to consider anything except the task at hand; fear, discomfort, distrust, all left behind.

Looking back, Tamsin thinks perhaps she had been too pragmatic in her estimation of being removed from battle. At first, it seemed an opportunity to survive another day, considering the visions she'd had were most definitely real, apparently. Now, it seems like she's gotten herself into a whole new ordeal.

It's not a battlefield. It's clearing room-by-room an infestation of well-armed, human-sized rats. It's extermination. It feels good. Magic flows easily from the palms of her hands, raw power burning through body after body, staff entirely forgotten in favor of an instinctual attack. Behind her, Alistair and a couple of others are finishing off squirming genlocks, but Tamsin is in no mood to wait.

She's never been able to unleash her magic like this in her life. The magic envelops her; it sings in her blood, mixing with the stewing taint in her veins. She walks mindlessly, staff whirling in front of her, flames and ice and lighting preceding her. Exhaustion is not an option. A Hurlock gets too close only for an adrenaline-fueled swing of her staff to catch it in the chin. The beast stumbles backwards, allowing Alistair to catch it on his sword. He says something, but Tamsin isn't in the mood to speak. She barely spares him a glance before moving along quickly, high on magic and blood.

When she bursts onto the top floor, she is by herself, facing down a massive horned darkspawn. An ogre. She's only heard a few things about them, but it's enough to identify it. The second it notices her, it charges. The mage rolls out of the way, barely escaping being run through by its horns. It gives enough time for the others to burst through the doorway. Immediately, they go about taking up positions. Alistair and the other soldier approach the beast, shields out, on opposite sides, each taking turns drawing its attention, dancing around the creature and stabbing into its calves. The archer retreats to the wall, knocking an arrow.

The elf stands up hurriedly, before swaying on her feet. She looks furiously around the room, first at the ogre, then to the unlit signal fire behind it. Practicality comes first, so Surana begins marching determinedly across the room. With each step, her vision blurs and she becomes less sure of her feet. She stares downwards, attempting to place her right foot in front of her left, only to lose track of where it was and crash to the ground. The rough wooden floorboards dig splinters into the side of her skin, and all at once the pain of the entire ordeal rushes into her. Every inch of her body is bruised and sore. A painful slice stings on her back. Most importantly, she hadn't been almost speared by the ogre. She'd been speared by him, definitely, considering the hole in her hip and the blood pouring around her.

Her head falls back, forehead crushing against the boards. A cold nail bites into her skin. Her eyes are pried open only long enough to squint up at the wall in front of her. The signal fire is still unlit, the pile of hay and tinder dry and untouched. The merest spark would be enough to light it. Her consciousness fading, it takes every ounce of her waning strength, adrenaline faded and magic depleted, to muster the effort, but the signal fire leaps to life. The growing fire is the last thing she sees before she can't keep her eyes open any longer. Consciousness evades her, and she finally looses it entirely as vibrations fly underneath her through the floorboards. The ogre fell.


	6. Chapter 6

**9:30 Dragon, Kocarri Wilds**

When she wakes, Surana thinks she's in her bunk at the Circle Tower. It feels wrong, lumpier and rougher. She cracks her eyes open and realizes she isn't in the Tower anymore. No, there was the battle, the Tower of Ishal… She should be dead. Tamsin sits up and looks around the room.

"Ah, your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased." It's the witch, from before. Morrigan. This must be her mother's hut. The mage jolts, hands pressing against her skin, but her wounds are only scars. Healing magic.

"Morrigan," Surana offers in confusion.

"Indeed. We are in the wilds, and I am tending your wounds. You are welcome, by the way. How does your memory fare? Do you remember mother's rescue?"

The elf blinks a few times, reaching back in her memories, but ultimately, shakes her head. "I went down. I don't recall getting here."

"Mother managed to save you and your friend, though it was a close call. What is important is that you both still live. The man who was to respond to your signal… quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle. Those he abandoned were massacred. Your friend... he is not taking it well," Morrigan explains.

"My friend… Alistair?" Surana asks. Her eyes rove over Morrigan's appearance, appreciating. The witch wore old clothes, nearly rags, but with confidence. She was beautiful; her golden eyes enrapturing, if Surana would let them be. But, with disappointment, she dismisses the passing consideration. It's not the time.

"The dim-witted one you were with before, yes. He is outside by the fire. Mother asked to see you when you awoke."

"Then I will go see them," Tamsin offers.

"I will stay, and make something to eat," Morrigan replies without inflection. She returns to the cooking fire, and Tamsin pulls herself out of bed to head for the door. The hut is comfortable, if small, and when truly considered, the area was much more well equipped than one would expect from a Witch of the Wild's hut. It looks like the type of place she would want to settle down, someday. Perhaps a dog.

Outside, she is greeted by the white-haired woman, Morrigan's mother. Her clothes are nothing to look at; truly, there is nothing remarkable to note about her. Perhaps that is the intention. Alistair is nearby, already dressed back in his armour, which has been cleaned.

"See, here she is. You worry too much, young man,"she says. Alistair turns from the water to face his fellow Grey Warden, the relief clear on his face.

"You… You're alive. I thought you were dead for sure." He sounds legitimately distraught.

"Thankfully, I am not," Surana replies simply.

"This doesn't seem real. If not for Morrigan's mother, we'd be dead atop that tower."

"Do not talk about me as if I am not present, lad," the woman interrupts.

"But you never told us your name. What do we call you?" Alistair asks. Tamsin is unconcerned; there is no need to fear an apostate, even one who seems as powerful as this witch. She'd have killed them already if she wanted to, so ultimately, there was no need to be so afraid to offend her. Perhaps it was a good sign that the templar wasn't about to walk all over her.

"Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth, I suppose it will do."

"The Flemeth? From the legends? Daveth was right. You're the Witch of the Wilds, aren't you?" It seems to Tamsin that nerves tinge his words, and it pushes respect for this man even father down. Yet, he seems kinder than she would have expected from a templar, so perhaps an amiable travelling companion could be made of him in the short term.

"And what does that mean? I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well, has it not?"

"Indeed," Tamsin interrupts before Alistair can shove his foot in his mouth. "Thank you. But... why?"

"Well," Flemeth begins, "we can't have all the Grey Wardens dying at once, can we? Someone has to deal with these darkspawn. It has always been the Grey Warden's duty to unite the lands against the Blight, or did that change when I wasn't looking?"

It's something Tamsin hasn't considered since waking up. It seemed a given; get out of these Wilds. From there? She hasn't thought. She isn't used to it; it almost feels like she could expect to just walk back into the Circle and go about the same complacent life she had become accustomed to. But, no, she wasn't going to. That life is over, now, and she's a Grey Warden. Surana never saw that as important, though. She didn't join to stop the Blight, or for noble ideals. It was self-interest. She didn't expect to find herself as one of the two surviving wardens in Ferelden during a Blight.

It seems like that's something she can't just walk away from.

"We should probably go to Orlais," Surana muses aloud. They were going to need to at least tell someone about this mess. Before she leaves, of course. "Those are the nearest Wardens, yes?"

Alistair shakes his head. "Cailan already summoned them. They'll come if they can, but I expect Loghain has already taken steps to stop them. We must assume they won't arrive in time."

"So, what, we're supposed to stop a Blight, just the two of us? I sure hope you have a plan for that." Pragmatically speaking, the idea doesn't hold much appeal for Tamsin. A nation was slowly but surely settling down on her shoulders, and despite the bite in her voice, she couldn't help but hope Alistair did have a plan. The other warden shakes his head, turning away in frustration.

"I can't believe that Teyrn Loghain would turn against the King. If Arl Eamon knew what he did, he'd never stand for it. The landsmeet would never stand for it. There would be civil war."

"You think we could go to this Arl?" Tamsin offers. Perhaps she can hand him the fate of Ferelden and hop on a ship heading somewhere far from the Circle Tower.

"Arl Eamon wasn't at Ostagar. He still has all his men, and he was Cailan's uncle. I know him. He's a good man, respected in the landsmeet. We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help," Alistair realizes, turning back around to face Flemeth and Tamsin. In a way, this is a man with innocence; he has hope.

"You have more at your disposal than merely old friends," Flemeth interjects. Alistair's hopw shines brighter on his face.

"Of course! The treaties. Grey Wardens can demand elves from Orzammar, the elves, the mages in cases of Blights."

"I may be old, but dwarves, elves, mages? This Arl Eamon? This sounds like an army to me," Flemeth prods.

"So, can we do this? Go to Redcliffe and the other places and build an army?" He turns, resolute. "It's always been the Grey Wardens' duty to defend against a Blight. And right now, we're the Grey Wardens."

Tamsin shudders. With finality, the nation of Ferelden and its people settles in on her shoulders, a nice heavy burden she hadn't asked for. A hopeful companion, almost puppy-like, full of hope and idealism staring her in the face, eyes brightening. It isn't like she can say no, and walk away from it.

"Ready to be Grey Wardens?" Flemeth offers.

"It seems so," Surana offers meekly.

"Now, before you go, there is but one more thing I can offer you." Flemeth stops, turning as the door to the house swings open and Morrigan steps through.

"The stew is boiling, mother dear, shall we have two guests for the eve, or none?" she asks.

"The Grey Wardens will be leaving shortly, my dear, and you will be joining them."

"Oh, that's such a shame—what?" Morrigan jolts, her relaxed demeanor turning to shock.

"The last time I looked, you had ears." The line reminded Surana of her mother, though those memories were vague at best. Flemeth laughs, entertained by her daughters' shock.

"Thank you, but if Morrigan doesn't wish to join us, then—" Surana starts. She is sure they will need the help, and the idea of a fellow mage for company next to the nearly-a-templar is appealing, but Tamsin doesn't want an unwilling follower.

"Her magic will be useful, even better, she knows the Wilds and how to get past the horse," Flemeth explains.

"Am I to be given no say in this?"

"You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Here is your chance. As for you, Wardens, consider this repayment for your lives." The exchange provokes sympathy in Tamsin. While she always wanted out of the Tower, these aren't the ideal circumstances for her, either.

"If she's willing to come along," is all the elf offers.

"Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but, won't this add to our problems? Outside the Wilds, she's an apostate," Alistair interrupts. A spark of irritation floods into Tamsin.

"If she wants to help, she comes," the mage snaps, the decision brokering no argument.

"Mother, this is not how I wanted this. I'm not even ready," Morrigan says. Understandably, it is a sudden adjustment. Tamsin steps away to allow them to speak further before they leave. She wanders to the edge of the water, passing Alistair without comment.

Tamsin sulks. This Blight business wasn't supposed to go like this. It was going to be done in a day, then she'd be off sailing to the sunny beaches of Antiva, or the charming intrique of Orlais. That had seemed a good choice; she speaks Orlesian, after all. That isn't happening, not now at least. No, now she's supposed to traipse off around the countryside, recruiting an army to the fight darkspawn and kill a fucking archdemon.

The beast she'd seen in her sleep, when she did the Joining. She tries not to think about how it made her feel.

Morrigan returns from the hut, a bag packed and in hand. Tamsin stands to meet the others, no supplies to speak of. Her staff along with everything else was lost in the tower. Truly, she'd had no attachments to material possessions since she was a child. She isn't saddened by the loss.

"I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens. I suggest a village north of the wilds as our first destination. Tis not far, and you'll find much you need there. Or if you prefer, I will simply be your silent guide. The choice is yours."

Tamsin frowns, and before Alistair can shove a wedge between her and the other, not-a-templar person in their group, she says, "Speak your mind." Her eyes flicker over to Alistair. "The company is welcome. To the village, then."

Flemeth barks a laugh. "Ah, you will regret saying that."

"Dear, sweet, mother, you are so kind to cast me out like this. How fondly will I remember this moment," Morrigan mocks, though it is obvious there is emotion behind her words.

"Well I always said, if you want something done, do it yourself. Or hear about it for about a decade afterwards."

"I just," Alistair interrupts. He turns to Tamsin directly. "Do you really want to take her along because her mother says so?"

"We need help," is all she says. She's in no mood to fight with him, but her mind echoes, 'is it because she's a mage?'

"I suppose you're right. The Grey Wardens have always taken allies where they can find them."

"I am so pleased to have your approval," Morrigan mocks.

"Let's go," Tamsin interrupts before they could get into a spat. She can already see the relations in this group being strenuous. That won't be a problem, though, if she just slips away in the night once they reach this village.

"Farewell, mother. Don't forget the stew on the fire, I would hate to return to a burned down hut."

"Tis far more likely you will return to see this entire area, along with my hut, swallowed up by the Blight," Flemeth laughs. Tamsin wonders if she is quite sane, and decides that no, she is not.

"Mother… I only meant…"

"Yes, I know. Do try to have fun, dear."

 **9:30 Dragon, Lothering**

"What do you think, boy?" Surana whispers. "About this Blight business, I mean. Should we slip out of camp, you and I, in the dark of the night?"

The war dog whimpers and smacks the elf firmly in the arm with his chin. He promptly lays across her legs, trapping her in place.

"Understood, dog." The decision has already been made in her heart, anyway. "That means I have to decide where we're going to go in the morning." Redcliffe, the mages, the Dalish? Truly, Surana had expected Alistair to decide, yet at Lothering, he'd placed the burden on her shoulders.

The bedroll is thin and uncomfortable, but still vastly preferable to the dark confines of a tent. The mage reclines, dog and blanket across her lap, with her new pack as a pillow. There had been little by way of supplies in Lothering, but they'd purchased as much as they could to make the journey; the dwarven merchants they'd met on their way out of the village had been especially helpful. The growing party only has three tents as a result, including the ragged one Morrigan brought from her hut. The first is claimed by Alistair, and by default, Sten, the newest member of the ragtag team, shares it. Surana would be welcome to share the other with Leliana, but she prefers the open air and warmth of the campfire.

"It seems we're picking up quite the group," the elf mutters. The dog shifts his head to face her, listening. "We've got some odd ones. An apostate, a templar, a Chantry sister, and a Qunari. It's quite a team." The mabari blinks, and Surana takes it as agreement. "Then there's me and you, but I think we're the normal ones." A snort. "Come on. The Sister thinks she's been chosen by the Maker." No reply. "I think she and I will have to agree to disagree." The mabari whines. "She says she was a bard, once, though, so maybe we can get along." His ears perk up. "At least she's not a templar." He turns away from her, shifting pointedly. "I know, I know, you like Alistair." A snort. Surana closes her eyes, hand thoughtlessly reaching down to scratch the dogs' ears.

"Move off my legs, you great oaf," Surana mutters, pushing the dog's side. He sighs, but doesn't move. "Panelan." Finally, he rolls to the side, the great, ferocious war dog flopping over beside the Grey Warden. She rolls onto her side, stretching her legs, and reaches her arm over him. "Alistair's all right, you know. I just." She pauses. "I just can't trust a templar, Panelan."

The mabari turns and licks her forehead once. She takes the comfort and relaxes into the dog's body.

Then the beauty; the song; the grotesque, misshapen silhouette of a dragon left on the cave wall; the pull; it's all back. He speaks to her. The dragon, the great god, the allure of his voice pulls her in. She wanders closer and closer, reaching for him, until she turns away from the shadow on the cave wall and watches him in all his glory. He is gargantuan, monstrous, and he rears his head to look at her. A weight like lead hits her in the stomach and an ice cold shiver tears down her spine, face to face with the beast. It opens it great maw and releases a booming bellow, shattering her ears and wrenching a scream from her throat.

Surana shoots up in alarm, the sound dying in her throat before it's released. Panelan leaps up and immediately falls into a defensive stance, circling her protectively. Wildly, the elf spins about in every direction, coming to her feet only to be met face-to-face by Alistair.

"Templar," she barks, the term inseparable from Alistair's face ever since she found out, and stumbles backwards. Her palms sweat, her breathing is uneven. Panelan moves quickly, leaping between Surana and Alistair, not threatening, but protecting. Tamsin falls back, landing on her bottom, eyes welling up with tears. The man takes a step towards them, his armour glinting in the rising sun's light, but stops at the dog's warning growl.

Leliana exits her tent at that moment. The bard opens her mouth to intercede, but Surana is already pulling herself to her feet. She faces Leliana and the already present Sten, which involves turning her back on Alistair, something which feels akin to turning one's back on a wild bear.

"Pack up," she snaps, attempting to return to normal. "We're heading out." She stalks over to the dying fire and dumps the waiting pot of water into the sizzling embers, sending a fresh cloud of smoke into the sky. Panelan glues himself to her side, Alistair forgotten, as she rolls up her bedroll. She angles herself away from her party, refusing to be so obvious as to wipe the tears falling on her cheeks until she is packed up and free to wander away from camp.

She stops at the treeline, closer to Morrigan's distant tent. The others are taking longer, as they have far more supplies, but she's relieved to have the time to collect herself. She sits down at the base of a tree, facing Panelan.

The elf scrubs the tears from her face, cursing under her breath. "Damn the Circle, damn the templars. What have the done? Look what they've done, boy, look at me." She can't stop more tears from leaking out. Her mind can't separate Alistair from a threat; in truth, it's not only subconscious. She doesn't trust him. He doesn't seem to share many Chantry views up front, but it feels to her that she's waiting for something she knows is there to round the corner and snap at her.

"I can't escape them," she mutters a last time, her tears running dry. Her eyes are red and puffy, but she notices the rest of her party has nearly finished packing up, so she steels herself to return.

When she does, walking back to the others with one hand on her dog, she's already shouldered her pack. She's prepared to leave.

"Time to move."

The others look at her, even Morrigan, who has now joined them. It's Alistair who steps up, his voice hesitant.

"Where are we going?"

"Redcliffe," she replies simply, passing him to return to the road. The others' footsteps fall in behind her.

As she walks, tears threaten her again and her spirit squirms inside her. It wasn't a decision she wanted to make. What if it's wrong?


	7. Chapter 7

**9:30 Dragon, Redcliffe Castle**

Blood and guts still spatter Surana's robes as she leaves her assigned chambers without washing. She has no patience for it with the walls enclosing her again. Truly, exhaustion creeps into her bones after the night and day of saving a village and infiltrating a castle, only to be sent via a blood magic sacrifice into the Fade to kill a demon. It would have been inconceivable to her when leaving Lothering, let alone when she was leaving the Circle. Never would she have imagined she would spend a day like this one, nor that sleep would evade her at the end of it.

So, she walks the halls of the castle, heading for the dungeons and making her best effort not to think about the thick stone walls surrounding her. Her breaths come sharply, her head light. A distraction. She needs a distraction. She reaches down and squeezes her thigh, digging her nails in as hard as she can. It's not ideal, but it does the trick temporarily, a grunt of effort leaving her. She feels more grounded; it's easier not to focus on the walls.

The heavy door to the dungeons swings open with effort. Inside, she is met with Jowan. Her former friend. He'd poisoned the Arl; an inconvenience, to be sure, but ultimately Surana has no love for him. Deep down, she felt something when she saw Alistair find out, but he's a templar, and she has no intentions of becoming friendly with one of the enemy.

"Are you only going to wallow, Jowan?" she begins. Her friend is leaning against the wall, sat with his head in his hands. He looks up at her with a tired expression.

"I will be executed, Tamsin," he starts, but the panic she expects, like the time he told her they were going to make him tranquil, is gone.

"Oh, right. I forgot."

"Is now really the time for jokes?" Jowan snaps.

"It's not your funeral." She pauses, stepping closer and dangling a key in front of her. "That is, if you're up for a bargain." She won't forget how he ran out on them. For all he knew, she could have been executed that day. Suspiciously, her childhood friend peers up at her, moving to get to his feet.

"What could you want from me?"

"Show me how," she demands, drawing her dagger. "You said you learned from a book. How does it work, Jowan?" She grows more insistent with each word. Jowan, now on his feet, looks pained.

"Why do you want to learn a thing like that?" He looks down at his hands. "I planned to never use it again. If not for that… Lily wouldn't hate me."

"So show me and leave. Become a farmer." Surana reaches out, pressing the blade into the palm of her hand. Slowly, she drags is down, slicing her skin with satisfaction. "Have you ever had your magic suppressed, Jowan?"

The mage shifts his weight from foot to foot and shakes his head. Surana clenches her fist, blood welling up and dripping onto the floor.

"Show me."

Silence fills the air for a time as Jowan rubs at his temples in frustration. With a sigh, he acquiesces.

"The most difficult part is learning to sense the energy in your blood." _And that of others_ , is the unspoken implication. "From there, it can be used similarly to your regular magicka. It's difficult to teach your senses to feel something they didn't before, which is why it's so difficult to learn from a book and so easy to learn from a demon. But," he adds, "I can do the same thing easily enough, the same way the Enchanters did when we were learning as children. Likely, it'll be even easier."

"So this will be simple?" Surana avoids commenting on how he put so much effort into learning blood magic from a book, but still managed to be so mediocre with everything else.

"Very," he agrees. He reaches out, touching Surana's hand gently and uncurling her fingers. His mana wraps itself around hers, guiding her aura, and she moves with it. He pulls at her blood, guiding her aura to do the same, and as easily as that, the pathway is open. Pulling the blood from her veins, she pushes energy into a fireball, growing it until the heat becomes uncomfortable. With a gasp, she releases the stream of magic and slumps backwards onto the wall. Breathing hard, she looks down at her own hand, surprised at what she's done.

"So, the rest is practice," she sighs.

Jowan meets her eyes, though he glances quickly at the key hanging on her belt. She grimaces, irritated at what has become of her meek friend, and tosses the key on the floor in his cell. Gracelessly, he scrambles for it as though there are other prisoners to contend with. He comes to his feet triumphantly, but Surana is already moving for the door. Without a word of farewell, she shoves her way out of the dungeon, heading back for her own chambers.

Once there, it's safe for her to practice. Sometimes, the fireball flares to life, while others she doesn't manage so much as a spark. One more time, she pulls on the energy in her blood, attempting to shape it into some form, but the spark fizzles out. Frustrated, she leaps to her feet, only to give herself a head rush. She trips backwards, landing on the stone floor, far too reminiscent of another cold, stone floor - one upon which she had routinely tore her back to shreds.

Delirious, she rolls onto her side. Panic sets in, her breaths speeding up and pain gripping her chest. She clutches at her robes, tearing and ripping at the collar until her chest is exposed. She thinks she can't breathe; scrambling for the fresh air of the window, she knocks open the shutters, releasing the chill morning air. The sun was beginning to rise.

Hacking over the windowsill, she sees spots, darkness pulling at the corners of her vision.

When she wakes, she's still in the same position. No one has come to get her; it's only the break of dawn, and everyone must want to rest up while they can enjoy real beds. She feels likely more exhausted than she had when she lost consciousness; unconsciousness and sleep, it seems, don't have the same effects. Her muscles scream because of her precarious position on the table, halfway out the ajar window. It's a relief nobody saw her perched like this.

Her sore muscles oppose her attempts to move, but she succeeds in shifting herself to the bed. She checks her wrists, finding her left arm already scattered with sideways slashes from her knife. Not wanting to be found for a blood mage, she seeks out a healing potion in her packs and pours it over the cuts. She's no good at healing magic; she really can't even heal a scratch. The cuts don't close right away, so she wraps some bandages around her arm, hoping no one will think anything of it, considering the mobs of undead they'd fought through to get here. Truly, yesterday was an ordeal.

Surana slides into the chair in front of the vanity, splashing water from the washing bowl onto her face. Staring airily at the mirror, the face of the first man she'd ever killed - one of the bandits they group had encountered leaving Lothering - swims in her mind. His features are blurry, and she can't quite remember if he used a shield or a greatsword.

"What's wrong with me?" she whispered, barely recognizing her own reflection. In stories, the hero - her, the dashing Warden, left to face impossible odds, falsely wanted by the law, yet still trying to save the lives of the people - well, the hero is haunted at night by those he's had to kill. The hero mourns each loss. The hero makes the right decisions. The hero stops the enemy without lowering himself.

She looks at the bandages on her arm.

Is it the act of a hero? Perhaps a darker one. Saving the people by any means necessary. Ruthless, making the hard decisions. Sacrificing the one for the many.

 _I'm not the hero_ , she thinks.

It's the act of a coward.

She remembers the cell. The cold, damp room, the _drip, drip, drip_ of the water when it rains. The loneliness.

She didn't dream in the cell.

It was closer to being Tranquil than she ever wanted to get, and this… this they couldn't take from her. With this, she could blow that cell door off its hinges.

Tamsin stands up rapidly, knocking the chair backwards onto the floor. The crash is loud enough to be uncomfortable. She can't think straight. They need to keep travelling but - no, no, she needs this blood off her. She shucks her robes - no longer Circle robes, but rather nondescript rags more akin to what Morrigan wears.

It hasn't even been a month since Ostagar. Her cheeks are thinner, her eyes hollowed out, but her muscles are more toned than ever before, even more than when she was in solitary confinement. Surana grabs the rag and begins rubbing down her naked body, dedicated to rubbing each piece of skin until its raw.

She tries to remember the face of the first man she killed. What colour was his hair?

Why doesn't it matter?

She imagines him as a father, with a family, and tries to picture his wife grieving, but it's no use. She can barely remember what a family looks like, let alone how one might grieve. So what if he had a wife?

 _I'm a monster_. She scrubs harder, finally reaching her callused feet. Calluses she had gained in the past few weeks, blood soaking her boots from the walking and blisters painfully tearing open over and over.

"What if Anders could see me now?" she wonders aloud. She bursts out into laughter, toppling back onto the bed. Tears begin leaking from her eyes. There's an ache in her heart whenever she thinks of him. "Love?" she demands of no one. Is this what it feels like, she wonders, is it even real, with the state of the world, the state of her life? How can you love when your life is nothing but the feeling of tearing your back open against a stone floor and the fear of losing something that is integral to your being?

"'No, mister templar, I'm a Grey Warden, I swear!'" she mocks, hysteria creeping into her voice. "A lie would sound more believable."

So much for protection, when your order is decimated.

Surana glances out the window, noticing the sun creeping higher on the horizon. The others would likely be eating breakfast, and she worries someone may come to find her. In a desperate need to ground herself, she reaches under her bandages and digs her nails into the raw cuts on her forearm.

Pain flares up, but she breathes, focusing solely on the pain and allowing it to center her. She lets her mind fill with the feeling of hurt, forcing other thoughts out.

In not too long, she's able to dress.

Throughout the day of travel, Tamsin wishes she'd slept more in the room. The few hours of unconsciousness she achieved weren't serving her well on the half day's walk towards The Brecillian Forest. It was even more uncomfortable, since she - and most of her companions - had selected gear from Redcliffe's armory. That was how she found herself trudging down the road in studded leather armour, which Morrigan, who is the best company of the group, finds absurd for a mage.

"Look, I'm definitely not planning on wading into the thick of battle," she says with finality. And she really isn't, not at all. In reality, she's grasping at anything she can use to stop herself from ever being caught again. The idea reminds her of something she's been meaning to ask the witch about for some time.

"So, shapeshifting. It is something you learned, yeah?" she asks. The subject of magic has her mind flicking back to the cuts on her arm, and she nervously glances at Alistair.

"Why do you ask?" Morrigan replies.

"I have heard of such magic in Dalish writings," Tamsin offers. Learning to read sparse Elvhen had been a strange endeavour at the Circle. There were three books written in the language, dust covered tomes which likely would have been removed from the library if someone else had found them. Surana had only been able to piece together certain sections of the book, between the one Dalish elf she pestered to teach her what Elvhen he knew and then learning the alphabet from nothing. Truly, she only knew that such magic existed, perhaps, if she had translated those words correctly, maybe.

"Truly, you have read elven writings? There are few Dalish works remaining in the world."

"Fortunately for me, it isn't as though the templars spend their time reading dusty old magic tomes - or, for that matter, that most mages do. Many read, but I made a ponit of selecting dust covered books which had not been touched in years, hoping to find things that others had forgotten. Among them were a couple of books in Elvhen, though my sparse knowledge of the language didn't enable me to actually read them in full. I suspected that one detailed magic such as yours, though I was not able to comprehend the tome."

"I wonder, if I were to speak with a Keeper about the origin of their magic, there would be any relation to what I was taught." The group is headed for the Brecillian Forest to find the Dalish before they journey to Denerim, so the opportunity to ask was imminent.

"The Dalish are loath to part with their secrets, unfortunately," Tamsin sighs.

A few moments pass before Morrigan switches the subject.

"So, have you an opinion on my abilities, then? Am I an unnatural abomination to be put to the torch?" An edge creeps into her voice.

"On the contrary, they sound very useful. I would be interested in learning, if you ever felt willing to teach," the Warden suggests.

Instead of answering directly, Morrigan says, "You are not what I expected from a Circle mage."

Once the sun has journeyed across the sky, the group settles in on the side of the road for the night. They've gained a packhorse since Redcliffe, so their supplies have been replenished, and on top of that it is easier to carry. Sten begins unloading the cooking supplies, while Alistair finishes propping up the men's tent. Leliana is seeing to the women's, while Morrigan has distanced herself a bit from camp, though she has begun to do so less.

Tamsin and Panelan are returning from fetching water. She sets the buckets down next to the fire.

"Tamsin," Alistair interrupts, having finished the tent. He gestures at the horse. "I can show you how to care for her?"

Disliking any attention from the former Templar in training, Tamsin glances around for an out, but doesn't find one. Resigning herself to a bit of time with him, she follows him to the horse.

"Now that we're back at the camp, I wanted to talk about what happened at Redcliffe," Alistair starts.

"All right," Tamsin agrees reluctantly. Abruptly, Alistair is enraged.

"You let Lady Isolde sacrifice herself! With blood magic! How could you do that?"

Irritation bubbling inside her, she snaps, "You think I should have killed the little boy instead?"

"We could have gone tothe Circle of Magi! We cou-"

"Sure, and what would have happened to Redcliffe, in our absence?" Tamsin interrupts. "The demon would have taken control, killed more people, raised more undead. Had we left the problem to fester, Isolde might be dead anyway, along with Teagan, the Arl, and everyone else."

"We should have tried something that didn't involve blood magic, at least!"

Tamsin's hand twitches, about to cover her bandaged and armoured forearms, but she stops the reaction.

"You refused to lead, Alistair, so if you want me to make the decisions, you're going to have to damn well live with them," she barked. She spins away from the horse, stalking back to the women's tent she had been refusing to sleep in for weeks. She storms inside, followed brusquely by Panelan, leaving the others to eat.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

 **9:30 Dragon, Brecillian Forest**

The Dalish weren't quite as friendly as Surana had hoped.

Meeting the Dalish is like a childhood dream for many a city-dwelling elf, her included. Every poor elf child hears tales of their free cousins, living away from human persecution. But it isn't what she expected. They greet her as an outsider, rather than long lost family; most were cordial, but she was not one of them, and she felt it.. She didn't want to admit to her companions that she was let down, so the next day, she channels the energy into tearing apart the undead residents of the Brecillian Forest.

"Left!" Alistair shouts.

Tamsin spins in the direction, magic already at her fingertips, and splashes flames into the face of an undead corpse. Inconveniently, the Veil is thin enough here to create such things. She doesn't thank him, only returns to their fight, shooting a bolt of lightning at an enemy who is creeping up behind Leliana. With the dead put back to rest, they push deeper into the ruins.

"Werewolves, corpses, giant spiders - what the fuck's next?" Surana exclaims, leading the way deeper into the ruins. She wishes she hadn't lost her staff at Ostagar, if only to knock the damn beasts back a few paces while she casts. If only it was easier to come across those things.

"I have a bad feeling about this…" Leliana trails off.

"Do you think the werewolves ever take vacation?" Alistair quips. "I could use one right about now, should we ask them?"

"Oh, come on, you two. It's only Monday," Surana says. Panelan ruffs lowly in agreement, trudging on near the head of the party. Sten trails silently at the back, sword drawn and at the ready.

As the group steps into the next room, a large room, full of traps, which Leliana quickly points out. She moves ahead of the party to begin disarming them, while the others spread out and look for threats.

"Careful, Panelan," Tamsin warns.

A roar interrupts them about halfway into the room. To their great surprise, a young dragon rushes forwards, charging for Leliana, who dives agilely out of the way. Alistair jumps ahead, charging with his shield to take the brunt of the beast's damage. The bard pulls out her bow, and begins shooting from the dragon's flank. Sten, from the other side of the room, shouts and charges the beast - Surana thinks she can see an echo of joy on his face, just barely.

Tamsin rushes to the side, aiming with ice to shatter the dragon's wings as a first step. They were the weakest point. She coats them, and Sten's sword cuts into the left one, shattering thin parts and mutilating the rest. Alistair bashes its head with his shield, leaving room for Leliana to dig a few arrows into its flank.

"Sten, watch out!" Surana barely has time to shout before the dragon's right leg kicks him in the side, knocking him off balance. She shoots a spike of ice over Sten's head, which justs into the dragon's neck. It keels in pain, and Alistair rushes forwards to finish it off, pinning its head with his shield, and stabs his sword deep into the beast's chest.

The party backs off to breathe, a bit of shock settling over them. A dragon is a new experience, even small.

"Didn't expect that," Surana mutters, more to herself, then continues, louder, "Should we keep moving? Witherfang won't cut his own heart out."

Wordlessly agreeing, the party gathers their bearings - and fill their bags from the dragon's hoard - and continues through the ruin. As the reach the end of the room, Sten finally speaks up.

"Some architect clearly suffered from an unrequited love of the pointed arch."

Surana moves out of her previous thoughts, surprised by the sudden comment. She glances up at the ceiling, observing the architecture, and then stifles a short laugh before finally giving into full laughter. The image of Sten sitting over a desk, studying architecture, strikes her.

They move into the lower ruins.

As soon as they do so, Surana is on edge. The stone walls, the chill - it's all to familiar. It's all she can do to focus on the fighting and forcefully press forwards as rapidly as possible. As long as she didn't panic, she'd survive. She stops responding to her companion's quarries and sticks constantly to Panelan's side. She keeps one hand on him whenever possible. It helps, mildly.

An elven ritual, some dead spiders and a few dead shades later, Surana makes the interesting discovery of an ancient phylactery. She lifts it carefully, studying the blood inside. She senses a presence of some sort.

"A trapped spirit?" she muses aloud. Images flit through her mind, she spirit communicating in quick emotions and imagery. An ancient elf, a mage, though her memories are jumbled. She fled battle, believing someone would come for her, but no one did. Wordlessly, Surana inquires for more information with her own feelings.

The elf was a mage and a warrior - Dirth'ena'salin - an Arcane Warrior. Fascinated, Surana presses for more information, a million questions forming in her mind at once. How was such a thing done?

The presence can teach, she says. She can share her remaining knowledge, and finally rest.

Surana steps back for a moment, considering if this could be the Fade, or this creature a demon, but finds herself awake and surrounded by her alarmed and confused companions. Alistair takes a step towards her, arm reached out, but Surana snaps her attention back to the phylactery, agreeing simultaneously before Alistair could stop her.

Images overtake her. Memories flood into her mind that are not her own. One hand on the phylactery and one on her forehead, she reels back, losing all sense of her physical form as she is absorbed into the body of the ancient elf - the warrior without a name. She sees her - the warrior, in silver armour, with brilliant blonde hair and the vallaslin of Andruil tattooed on her face. It is a reflection. Her memories flit in front of Surana's eyes, and into her limbs. She moves with the warrior.

 _She is a young girl, training under a strict tutor, late for lessons. She trains for years, flickering past her vision, with an older man, also bearing Andruil's vallaslin. She grows into a woman, learning with him, day to day. She is called Ashavise. She's late for lessons, and she has to do many dishes that night._

 _She is older, no longer training with the man, surrounded by a group of other warriors - friends, she feels - three men and another woman. One bears the vallaslin of Dirthamen, the rest Andruil. They train together, and patrol. One day, the man with Dirthamen's vallaslin is gone - Surana does not know why. She can't understand their words, though they flow from her mouth as a native speaker, she can barely wrap her mind around their meaning as it flies through her head. She can't keep up with the words._

 _A woman is walking through a courtyard. Surana watches from the crowd, one among many, both armoured and not, all elves, painted with vallaslin - save the one woman, with vibrant red braids, walking through the centre of the crowd, which parts in front of her and her entourage. She is flanked by similarly dressed warriors, minimal vallaslin on their faces, expressing devotion to Andruil. They look fierce, though behind them trail servants, who look cowed and afraid. Surana peers at the faces of those around her - they seem discouraged, unhappy, some concerned._

 _Some time later, the woman still present in Surana's temple city, they are out on a hunt. They ride harts, Surana included, feeling as though she has done so all her life. Words flow from her mouth to her companions - Elvhen, too quick for her to understand so quickly. Someone cries out, having sighted their prey, and Ashavise turns to shoot - it is a young boy. An arrow pierces his back._

 _A battle. Ashavise is fighting, a whirlwind through a sea of other vallaslin-wearing elves. At the head of the field, on a chariot, sits the woman from before, without vallaslin. Magic and the blade combine. Surana is comfortable in the style, moving reflexively through the field._

 _She's being whipped. One of her friends was a traitor._

 _More battles follow. Sometimes, they fight elves with different vallaslin - sometimes they also bear dedications to Andruil. Eventually, they begin facing mixed armies, or forces that bear no vallaslin at all. They achieve great success._

 _Then great failure. They face force of elves, greater in number, without vallaslin, led by a tall man, with flowing black hair. Magic flies around the battlefield and she runs - fleeing for the temple, for the vial._

"Tamsin. Tamsin!"

Her body is being shook. Hands are on her shoulders. Her body feels foreign, her surroundings unfamiliar.

" _Mahn ea ar? Ar ea ena'sal'in'amelan, sul'ana Andruil. Ar ea Ashavise, tas ma ea sul'ema su panathe!_ " Ashavise shouts, jumping to her feet and leaving the vial abandoned on the altar. She can't make sense of her surroundings, and confused, she stops, squinting at Leliana.

" _Shem'len?_ _Sul'ana ra harellan?"_

Ashavise spins around in the temple room, seeking her long gone weapon. When she doesn't find it, she begins scrambling about the room.

"Tamsin, are you in there?" Alistair steps towards her, but Ashavise raises an arm, coated in fire. Their eyes met and Alistair moves back. The flames extinguish.

"Has she been possessed? Alistair, do something!" Leliana cries.

Slowly, the mage's movements slow down, digging through rubble less vigorously until she stops entirely. Surana comes back to herself, gradually regaining control of her body. She can't speak, but rather stands dumbly for a few moments, trying to recall her situation. She has experienced an entire other lifetime - an immortal Elvhen one.

Withdrawn into herself, it's a shock when she's hit with a holy smite.

It doesn't knock her out as it might have a child. No, instead, she feels every bit of it seeping into her and severing her from the Fade. Panic comes over her, her breathing sharp. She clatters to the ground, lying in a pile of rubble. She feels it when her companions circle her. Their closeness fills her with revulsion.

The walls around her are too familiar. She can't feel the Fade, the Veil, no matter how hard she reaches for it. As she fails to grasp it, her panic grows. She's back in her solitary confinement cell. The stone floor scrapes against her bare arms, just as it did then. She can't breathe, her chest is constricting, her lungs refuse to fill. She can't move from her position lying on her side.

She thinks she's going to die, and when she loses consciousness, she thinks she has.

Tamsin was out for only a few minutes. When she comes to, she's greeted by worried faces. The first comfort to her is Panelan, standing over her lap, having chased Leliana and Alistair back to a distance. Sten remained, guarding the door, ever practical. Her breathing is nearly normal, though the tightness in her chest has only subsided marginally, she grasps Panelan tightly and tries to gain control of her own body.

She has to order her memories. Her sense of time is jumbled, and she begins retracing their steps and the days since Ostagar. When she has finally oriented herself in time, she feels more secure. She is in a Dalish ruin, hunting a werewolf's heart. She is Tamsin Surana, a Grey Warden. Unfortunately.

Ashavise was an ancient Elvhen warrior who had done a memory transfer.

She can delve into the elf's memories, if she thinks about it. Actually, it is far easier to do than is comfortable. She remembers training at a temple as a young girl - but no, that wasn't her. She pushes the memories from her current thoughts. She would have to deal with that later.

She stands on shaky legs, steadying herself on her loyal mabari. Her magic is returning to her, if weaker than before. She wishes she had a staff, now, to fight with.

"I am myself," she says to Alistair and Leliana. They are the only words she says until they reach the werewolves.

Each time she looks at Alistairs face, she recalls that he hit her with a Holy Smite. He nauseates her.

Surana wonders how she'd ever let herself begin to trust him.

A Templar is a Templar.

"When I was told that Zathrian had rediscovered immortality, I was hoping for something a bit different," Surana says.

"It seems t'was not his goal in creating this curse," Morrigan replies. They exchange a smile.

Their party, returned to the Dalish camp after the successful breaking of the curse, was camped for the night. Surana had instructed them to remain a few days for a few reasons. The one she will never speak is that she's shaken from her experiences, and needs time to sort her mind out. The second is that Varathorn is crafting a custom weapon for her, from ironbark, as it is the first time they've encountered someone with the skills to craft a mage's staff. Surana was very specific, drawing on memories from Ashavise, in describing and drawing schematics with him. The third was simply to allow the party a day or two's rest, which no one save Sten objected to.

The mages, sitting before a fire, pass a few seconds in silence.

"Tamsin," Morrigan begins, the stops. Surana looks up at her.

"Yes?"

"Do you still wish to learn to change your shape?"

Surprised, Tamsin wakes up. Her eyes were heavy, but now, curiosity lit up her face. "Very much."

Morrigan leaned back against the stump she sat against. "I will teach you. Perhaps we can begin tomorrow?"

Tamsin nodded slowly, resting back in her bedroll. The two has set up Morrigan's tent next to a fire, separated from the rest of camp. Tamsin wanted one eye on Alistair, though she did not fully want to admit it. The open air and space from those she did not trust fully was the best thing for her at the moment, and Morrigan asked no questions on the subject.

The elf drifted off by the fireside, sleep overtaking her quickly after the full days.

The next thing she knew, she was in the Fade. Delighted, she finds the familiar environment of her dreamspace. It is a space she could see outside of the Circle Tower's windows, a clearing in the trees by the lakeside. The Tower, looming over her, ever present, inescapable… but she ignores it, as she is outside. Free of it.

Her dreamspace appears as such, and always has, since she has few memories to build a comfortable space with. Had she been able to imagine herself farther from the Tower, she would have done so in the first place. But now, now if she looks around, it's nowhere in sight. She's finally out.

She could change the dreamscape.

"But to what?" she mutters.

She isn't sure. The places she has been… Ostagar, Lothering, Redcliffe, the Dalish camp… They aren't happy places.

Perhaps the inn she'd stayed at with Duncan. That had been a happy night.

She pictures it, struggling to push her perception on the environment around her. It has never been a perfectly easy task, but it was possible. Instead, her imagination and memories fail her.

She hasn't dreamt, aside from darkspawn nightmares, since leaving the Circle. Even so, it's obvious the Fade is different today. A bit less mutable, a bit fuzzier. She'd been able to tell as soon as she arrived. She wonders if it is the Taint, or the blood magic, or if she simply isn't sleeping as well. She always dreamt stronger, clearer, than the other mages; the Enchanters told her it was because her magic was stronger. At times, though, she wondered which was the cause and which the consequence. Was perhaps her magic stronger _because_ she was more connected to the Fade, instead?

"Tamsin!"

Startled, Tamsin finds Curiosity has arrived in her space. She realizes she must have been open to the spirit. And questioning. For a moment, she is disappointed, since she has not been in the Fade for so long that she thought to enjoy peace. Immediately, she realizes she may not dream again for some time, and would prefer to speak with her friend.

"I've watched some of what you've done! You've gone so far. Are you a Grey Warden, now? I've heard of those before. How does one become a Grey Warden, exactly? Is there a ceremony? Do you swear an oath?"

"Curiosity! Slow down, friend." Tamsin sits back on her usual rock, and her friend joins her nearby. It is different, to speak with her, unworried that her Circle companions will find out and think her dangerous. "Yes, there is a ceremony, and actually, it's rather more complex than you might expect. See, they have this blood mixture…"

The purple-glowing young woman pays rapt attention as the mage explains the details of becoming a Grey Warden, and the consequences of it.

"Fascinating!" the spirit exclaims. She processes the information faster than Surana ever could, and immediately presses onto the next issue. "You said you feel different? More distant?"

"I don't know if it's the taint, the blood magic, or coincidence."

"Blood magic!" the spirit glances around. "Did you speak to another spirit? But, to answer your question, yes, I would hazard that it is the blood magic."

"No, I did not speak with another spirit. My…" _Friend?_ "Jowan. He taught me the basic principle of the thing. Truly, I know very little about it. I can barely conjure a flame." She sighs. "So it's… weakened my connection? To the Fade?"

"In a way. I'm uncertain about how your waking mana will be affected, but in my experience, blood mages are less aware of their surroundings. Their lucidity can fade when sleeping. I have watched blood mages dream, and considered that perhaps that is why your teachers say they are more susceptible to demons."

Surana, mind working slower than the spirit's, has to process this new information for a moment. She leans back, running her hands through her hair.

"I could have taught you, you know."

At that, Surana tilts her head to peer over at the spirit. "For what, a ride in my skin?"

"No." Curiosity manages to look affronted. "That might be interesting, but I would lose out on the long-term benefit of discussions with you."

"Oh."

Curiosity waves Surana over, so she slides down to sit cross-legged across from her.

"So if you're really planning on helping me with this, Curiosity, I'm going to need a stated, understood agreement. I don't plan on accidentally giving away my fucking body." _Or gods know what else._

"Very well. Practical," she replies. "I will help you learn to use blood magic. In return, when we meet, you will tell me of your experiences in the world and anything new you learned. As we do now."

Surana shrugs, agreeing. She nods to Curiosity, indicating she should continue.

"Then. Let's practice."

The spirit laughed joyously.


End file.
